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HARRINGTON 


A  STORY  OF  TRUE  LOVE. 


BY   THE   AUTHOR    OF   "WHAT   CHEER,"  "THE   GHOST:    A 
CHRISTMAS   STORY,"  "A  TALE   OF   LYNN,"  ETC. 


/!f 
// 


u  Herein  may  be  seen  noble  chivalrye,  curtosye,  humanyte,  friendlyenesse, 
hardyenesse,  love,  friendshype,  cowardyse,  murder,  hate,  vertue  and  synne. 
Doo  after  the  good,  and  leve  the  evyl,  and  it  shall  brynge  you  to  good  fame 
and  rencmme." — SIR  THOMAS  MALORY  :  Preface  to  Morte  D*  Arthur. 


BOSTON  I 
THAYER    &    ELDRIDGE, 

114   &    Il6   WASHINGTON    STREET. 
i860. 


KMTKRED  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1850,  by 

THAYER    &    ELDRIDGK, 
ID  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court,  of  Uie  District  of  Massachusetts. 


W.  H.  TINSON,  Stereotyp»ir. 


I 

THIS  BOOK 
TO     3^C -52-     "WIFE. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

PROLOGUE, 7 

CHAPTER  I.— THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR, 69 

II.— THE  FENCING  SCHOOL, 81 

III.—  QUARTE    AND    TlERCE, 90 

TV. — MURIEL  AND  EMILY, 116 

V. — LA  BOSTONIENNE, 127 

VI.— AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR,     .        .        .138 

VII — Roux, 146 

VIII.— THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  HUNTER, 163 

IX. — SCHOLAR  AND  SOLDIER, 173 

X — CONVERSATION, 181 

XL — NORTH  AND  SOUTH, 191 

XII — STARTLING  DEVELOPMENTS,      .        .        .        .        .        .  210 

XIIL— THE  FAIRY  PRINCE, 228 

XIV — THE  ANTI-SLAVERY  CONVENTION,  .       .  .       .240 

XV — WAR  AND  PEACE, 252 

XVI — THE  GLIMPSES  OF  THE  MOON, 268 

XVIL— NOCTURNAL, 276 

XVIII.— THE  PRETTY  PASS  THINGS  CAME  To,  .        .        .        .  290 

XIX.— THE  ROAR  OF  ST.  DOMINGO, 302 

XX — EXPLANATIONS, 316 

XXL— THE  BREAKING  OF  THE  SPELL, 328 

XXII.— INTERSTITIAL, 340 

XXIII — THE  BLOOMING  OF  THE  LILY, 349 

XXIV — THE  BLOWING  OF  THE  ROSE, 358 

XXV.— WlTHERLEE, 376 


VI  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXVI.— A  MAN  OP  RUINED  BLOOD,    ...  .    402 

XXVII.— REVELATIONS,    .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .412 

XXVIII — THE  SABBATH  MORNING, 421 

XXIX. — HELL  ON  HEAVEN  IMPINGING,        .....    428 

XXX.— THE  'HEARTS  OP  CHEVALIERS, 443 

XXXI WRECK  AND  RUIN, 453 

XXXII — HERALD  SHADOWS, 467 

XXXIIL— THE  OLD  ACHAIAN  HOUR,     .        .        .        .        .        .485 

XXXIV.— IN  LIBERTY'S  DEFENCE, 502 

XXXV PALLIDA  MORS, 517 

XXXVI.— lo  TRIUMPHE, 534 

EPILOGUE,        .  ' 549 

NOTE,  557 


HARRINGTON. 


PROLOGUE. 
I. 

As  hot  a  day  as  ever  blazed  on  the  lowlands  of  Louisiana, 
blazed  once  in  mid- April  on  the  plantation  of  Mr.  Torwood 
Lafitte,  parish  of  Avoyelles,  in  the  Red  River  region.  Per 
haps  it  was  because  the  heat  was  so  unseasonable  that  it 
seemed  as  if  never,  not  even  in  midsummer,  had  there  been  so 
hot  a  day.  One  might  have  been  pardoned  for  imagining  that 
heat  not  of  this  world.  Mr.  William  Tassle,  overseer  to 
Lafitte,  was  a  profane  man,  but  he  might  have  been  con 
sidered  as  only  a  profane  poet  aiming  at  the  vivid  expression 
of  a  mystical  dark  truth,  when,  speaking  of  the  day,  he  said  it 
was  as  hot  as  Hell. 

It  was  the  Sabbath,  but  an  active  fancy,  brooding  over  the 
general  condition  of  man  and  nature  on  Mr.  Lafitte's  plan 
tation,  might  have  thought  it  rather  the  Devil's  Sabbath  than 
the  Sabbath  of  the  Lord.  Through  the  vaporous  atmosphere, 
simmering  with  the  heat,  swarming  with  insect  life,  and  reek 
ing  with  the  dense,  sickly  sweetness  of  tropic  plants  and 
flowers,  the  fierce  sun  poured  a  flood  of  stagnant,  yellow  light, 
which  lay  in  a  broad  and  brassy  glare  over  the  low  landscape. 
Veiled  by  the  cruel  radiance,  rose  afar  in  the  west  and  north 
the  Pine  Woods  of  Avoyelles,  and  in*  the  southern  distance  the 
solemn  masses  of  gloom  formed  by  the  cotton-woods,  live- 


8  PBOLOGTTE. 

oaks  and  cypresses  of  the  Great  Pacoudrie  Swamp.  The  eye 
wandering  backward  from  the  depths  of  the  morass,  saw  the 
smouldering  fire  of  the  atmosphere  envelop  the  enormous 
trees,  draped  everywhere  with  long  streamers  of  black  moss, 
and  kindle  the  broad  palmetto  bottoms,  and  the  multi-colored 
luxuriance  of  tropical  vegetation,  which  sprang  into  ranker  life 
beneath  the  vivid  and  sullen  ray.  The  sluggish  tide  of  the 
bayou  basked  with  snaky  gleams  in  the  quivering  lustre  ;  the 
red  marl  of  the  plantation  where  mules  and  negroes  were  toiling 
painfully  under  the  oaths  and  blows  of  the  drivers  and  over 
seer,  darkly  glowed  in  it ;  the  bright,  rank  green  of  the  lawn 
before  the  mansion  was  aflare  with  it  ;  and  the  mansion  itself, 
with  its  rose  and  jasmin  vines  drooping  around  the  posts 
of  the  veranda,  looked  scorched  to  a  deeper  brown  in  the 
hot,  thick,  yellow,  intolerable  glare. 

Shadows  that  day  were  the  demons  of  the  landscape. 
Shadows  of  intense  and  peculiar  blackness,  so  compact 
that  they  seemed  to  have  a  substantial  being  of  their  own, 
lurked  in  the  yellow  light  around  and  beneath  every  object.  A 
dark  fancy  might  have  dreamed  them  a  host  of  devils,  disguised 
as  shadows,  and  mustered  to  prevent  the  escape  of  a  soul  from 
Hell.  Black  with  a  strange  blackness,  shaped  to  an  ugly  goblin 
resemblance  of  the  thing  they  accompanied,  they  were  scat 
tered  like  a  host  of  demon  sentries  all  over  the  scene,  and  had 
watch  and  ward  of  everything .  The  gaunt,  stilted  bittern  stand 
ing  motionless  near  the  water,  had  his  black  goblin  duplicate 
beneath  him  on  the  glistering  clay.  The  mud-hued,  warty-hided, 
abominable  alligator,  as  he  raised  himself  on  his  short  legs,  had 
his  black,  misshapen,  shadow-caricature  to  lumber  up  with  him 
on  the  trodden  mire,  and  it  went  with  him  as  he  took  his  lump 
ish  plunge  into  the  foul  bayou.  Every  plant  or  shrub  had  its 
scraggy  imp  of  shadow  sprawling  beneath  it,  and  darting  and 
dodging  as  if  to  catch  it  whenever  it  moved.  Every  tree — 
cypress,  live-oak,  sycamore,  cotton-wood,  or  gum,  all  solemnly 
draped  with  black  moss — had  its  scrawny  phantom  to  toss  and 
nicker  fantastically  with  the  tangled  motion  of  a  hundred  dart 
ing  arms,  if  the  branches  or  their  streamers  swayed  in  the 
furnace-breath  of  the  light  wind.  Every  fallen  trunk,  or  log, 


PEOLOGUE.  9 

or  stump,  or  standing  post  had  its  immovable,  black  sentinel 
shape  of  shadow  projected  beyond  it,  or  crouching  by  its  side. 
Along  the  running  fences  on  the  plantation  ran  black,  spec 
tral  bars  on  the  red  marl.  In  the  fields,  among  the  new-, 
sprung  corn,  sown  with  the  pain  and  sweat  of  slaves,  a  demon- 
crop  of  shadow  mocked  with  its  ugly  color  and  fantastic  shape 
the  green  beauty  of  the  pennoned  grain.  The  reeking  mules, 
panting  and  straining,  with  drooping  heads,  as  they  dragged 
the  groaning  ploughs  through  the  soil  of  the  cotton  fields,  or 
pulled  the  clanking  harrows  over  the  furrowed  rows,  had  their 
monstrous  jags  of  sooty  shadow,  like  the  malformed  beasts  of 
a  devil's  dream,  jerking  along  with  shapeless  instruments 
beside  them.  The  black  drudges,  men  and  women,  plodding 
and  tottering  in  the  sweltering  heat,  behind  the  ploughs, 
beside  the  harrows,  or  dropping  seed  into  the  drills,  had 
hunched  and  ugly  goblin  dwarfs  of  shadow,  vigilantly  dogging 
their  footsteps,  and  bobbing  and  dodging  with  their  more 
active  movements.  The  burly  overseer  on  horseback  had  his 
horsed  demon  of  lubber  shadow,  which  aped  his  every  gesture 
and  movement,  ambling  fantastically  with  him  hither  and 
thither  among  the  rows,  and  grotesquely  motioning  into 
squirms  of  phantom  glee  the  shadows  of  the  writhing  slaves 
on  whom  his  .frequent  whip-lash  fell.  Up  around  the  planter's 
mansion,  shadows  as  fantastical,  as  black  and  demoniacal  as 
these,  wavered  or  lay  in  the  fierce,  yellow  glow.  And  among 
them  all  there  was  none  uglier  or  more  seemingly  sentient  than 
one  within  the  room  opening  on  the  veranda — a  black, 
hellion  shape  which  floated  softly  as  in  a  pool  of  oil,  on  an 
oblong  square  of  sluggish  sunshine  shimmering  on  the  floor, 
just  behind  the  chair  of  Mr.  Lafitte. 

Angry  words  had  been  uttered  in  that  room  within  the  last 
few  minutes — angry  at  least  on  the  part  of  Madame  Lafitte, 
who  sat  away  from  the  sunlight,  opposite  her  husband,  with  a 
table  laid  with  fruit  and  wine  between  them.  She  was  of  the 
superbest  type  of  southern  beauty — and  there  is  no  beauty 
more  exquisite;  but  now  her  lovely  olive  face  was  dusky  white 
with  fury  and  agony — its  pallor  heightened  by  contrast  with 
her  intense  black  hair,  which  she  wore  in  heavy  tresses  droop- 

1* 


10  PROLOGUE. 

ing  almost  to  the  broad  gold  ornaments  in  her  ears.  Silent 
at  present,  she  sat  with  her  white  arms  tightly  clasped  below 
her  bosom,  which  convulsively  rose  and  fell  beneath  its  muslin 
folds,  and  with  dilated  nostrils,  and  pale  lips  curved  with  hate 
and  grief,  kept  her  dark  eyes,  lustrous  with  passion,  fixed  on 
the  evil  visage  of  her  husband. 

"  You  are  well  named,"  she  broke  forth  again,  her  voice,  a 
rich  contralto,  trembling  with  vehemence  ;  "  but  you  are 
worse  than  your  pirate  namesake.  Worse  than  the  worst  of 
that  Baratarian  crew.  Lafitte!  Lafitte,  indeed!  You  are 
worse  than  he.  Worse  than  Murrell.  Worse  than  anybody. 
Devil  that  you  are  V 

She  paused  again,  speechless  with  fury.  The  tornado  which 
many  thought  the  brassy  flare  upon  the  landscape  portended, 
had  its  proper  fulfillment  in  the  raging  whirl  of  passions  within 
her.  Mr.  Lafitte  sat  at  ease,  slowly  tilting  m's  chair  to  and 
fro,  the  jewelled  fingers  of  his  brown  left  hand  clasped  a,round 
the  stein  of  a  crystal  goblet  on  the  table,  his  right  hand 
carelessly  thrust  into  a  side  pocket  of  his  white  coat,  and  re 
garded  her  with  a  sardonic  smile  on  his  dark  visage,  while 
slipping  to  and  fro  in  the  sluggish  pool  of  light  upon  the 
floor,  his  shadow,  like  a  black  familiar,  moved  with  an  oily 
motion  behind  him. 

"  Anything  more,  my  angel  ?"  he  asked  in  a  soft,  smooth, 
courteous  voice,  habitual  with  him:  "  any  more  epithets  ? 
Pray  continue.  Go.  on,  light  of  my  life,  go  on.  Indulge  your 
own  Lafitte — your  pirate  lover.  He  loves  to  hear  you." 

Maddened  by  his  calm  mockery,  she  did  not  reply,  but  kept 
her  blazing  eyes  fixed  upon  his  face.  A  weaker  man  than 
Mr.  Lafitte  might  have  shrunk  from  tha,t  gaze.  But  its 
burning  fire  was  wasted  on  his  eyes  as  flame  upon  asbestos. 
Strange  eyes  had  Mr.  Lafitte — true  tokens  of  the  nature 
which  else  his  other  features  might  have  betrayed  less  surely. 
His  form  was  muscular  and  manly,  and  his  face,  though  dark 
and  sinister,  might  have  been  justly  called  handsome,  if  only 
for  the  richness  of  its  brunette  complexion.  Dark,  wavy 
auburn  hair,  which  he  wore  lorfg,  and  a  thick  moustache  of  the 
same  color,  drooping  over  the  mouth,  .conferred  a  certain 


PROLOGUE.  11 

lordly  grace  upon  the  countenance.  The  nose,  not  finely  cut, 
was  bold,  aquiline,  and  deeply  curved  in  the  nostrils,  and  the 
line  of  the  jaw  and  chin  was  vigorous  and  masterful.  In  the 
full  visage,  suffused  with  the  dense  and  sultry  glow  of  a  highly 
vascular  organization,  tropic  passions  basked  in  strong  repose. 
But  the  motor  passion  of  all  was  evident  in  the  eyes.  Large 
eyes  which  at  a  yard's  distance  might  have  seemed  grey,  but 
nearer  were  tawny  and  flecked  with  minute  blood-specks. 
Steadfast,  watchful,  glossy,  unwinking  eyes — without  depth, 
without  sympathy — obdurate,  rapacious  and  cruel — they  con 
firmed  the  expression  of  the  receding  brow  above  them, 
which,  broad  and  full,  with  a  marked  depression  down  its 
centre,  was  thus  divided  into  two  lobes,  and  bore  resemblance 
to  the  forehead  of.  the  tiger.  A  physiognomist,  looking  at 
that  face,  would  have  declared  Mr.  Lafitte  a  man  organized 
for  ferocity  as  the  beast  he  resembled  is  organized.  A  believer 
in  the  doctrine  of  transmigration  might  have  held  that  the 
spirit  of  a  tiger  dwelt  in  his  frame,  and  looked  out  of  those 
tawny,  blood-specked  orbs. 

1 1»  looked  out  of  them  now  as  writh  a  feline  playfulness  he 
spoke  his  smooth  taunts,  meanwhile  swaying  slowly  to  and 
fro  in  his  chair,  as  though  balancing  for  a  spring. 

"  Go  on,  my  beautiful  one,"  he  continued.  "  Favor  me 
with  more  of  those  choice  similitudes.  Choice  ?  And  yet — 
as  a  matter  of  taste,  my  angel,  purely  as  a  matter  of  taste — 
that  phrase — pirate,  though  bold  and  graphic,  I  admit, 
might  be  artistically  improved.  Corsair,  now.  What  do  you 
think  of  corsair  ?  Is  not  corsair  better,  more  poetical,  more 
Byronesque  ?  Yes/7  he  went  on  reflectively,  as  though  the 
proposed  change  were  a  matter  of  vital  seriousness,  "  yes, 
corsair  is  a  finer  word.  Soul  of  my  soul,  let  it  be  corsair. 
Suffer  Lafitte  to  be  your  Conrad  ;  you  shall  be  his  Zuleika, 
Have  I  '  one  virtue,'  my  Zuleika  ?  You  will  readily  con-cede 
me  the  '  thousand  crimes/  I  know,  but  have  I  the  '  one 
virtue  ?' " 

"Why,"  she  wailed  passionately,  taking  no  heed  of  his 
badinage  ;  "  why  am  I  treated  thus  1  Why  am  I  kept  here 
on  this  hateful  plantation,  in  this  remote  parish,  without  life. 


12  PROLOGUE. 

without  society,  without  pleasure  of  any  kind.  Nothing  but 
this  routine  of  dull  farm  life.  No  faces  but  your  servants' 
and  your  overseer's  around  me.  No  company  but  these 
planters,  these  planters'  wives,  these  planters'  daughters,  these 
people  that  ride  over  here  sometimes,  that  I  fatigue  myself 
with  visiting,  that  I  care  nothing  about,  anyway.  Bad 
enough  to  come  here  once  a  year  for  the  hot  months — but 
three  years,  winter  and  summer,  have  I  spent  here.  Three, 
Lafi tte.  Not  once  have  I  been  in  New  Orleans  for  three 
years.  Not  once  near  the  house  where  seven  years  of  mar 
riage  with  you  were  endurable  with  friends,  with  society,  with 
life,  with  pleasures,  with  things  I  cared  for,  and  which  diverted 
me.  Cut  off  from  them  all.  You  go  when  you  please. 
Weeks,  months,  you  are  away,  and  leave  me  here  sick,  mad, 
frantic  with  ennui.  Here,  up  the  river,  alone,  what  have  I 
here  to  enjoy  ?" 

"Here,  my  Josephine,"  he  replied,  in  an  unruffled  voice  ; 
"here,  do  you  ask  ?  What  have  you  here  ?  Here  you  have 
books,  novels,  without  end,  music  in  reams,  your  guitar,  your 
piano,  this  elegant  simplicity,  this  charming  country  proipect, 
your  own  sweet  thoughts,  the  pleasures  of  imagination,  the 
pleasures  of  memory,  the  pleasures — yes,  even  the  pleasures  of 
hope.  And  then,  too,"  sinking  his  voice  to  a  softer  tone, 
while  his  smile  became  a  shade  more  sardonic  and  his  eyes 
more  cruel,  "  then,  too,  you  have  me." 

"You,"  she  raved,  her  pallid  face  convulsed  with  the 
refluent  fury,  and  her  eyes  flashing.  "  You  1  Yes,  I  have 
you.  Whom  I  hate,  whom  I  loathe,  whom  I  abhor  !  Yes,  I 
have  you  ;  you  who  torture  me." 

"  I  who  torture  you  ?"  interrupted  Mr.  Lafitte  blandly. 
"  And  yet,  my  angel,  they  say  we  are  a  model  couple.  They 
are  never  tired  of  talking  of  my  unvarying  gallant  courtesy  to 
you/  You,  yourself,  could  not  name  this  moment  in  a  court  of 
law  one  word  or  action  that  would  seem  incompatible  with  the 
tenderest  affection  for  you." 

"  I  know  it,"  she  moaned.  "  Yes,  that  is  the  misery  of  it 
I  am  insulted,  I  am  profaned,  I  am  outraged,  I  am  tortured 
till  I  could  go  mad,  or  kill  myself;  and  it  is  all  done — my 


PROLOGUE.  13 

God  !  I  know  not  how.  Done  with  smoothness  and  calmness 
and  courtesy  ;  done  with  civility  ;  done  with  sweet  stabbing 
words.  Others  could  only  see  the  sweetness  ;  none  but  I  can 
feel  the  stabs.  But  they  kill  me  daily,  and  you  know  it. 
.  Subtle  and  sweet  is  your  cruelty  to  me — cruel,  cruel  devil  that 
you  are  !  Cruel  to  me,  cruel  to  your  slaves,  cruel  to  every 
one." 

"  Cruel  to  my  slaves,  eh,"  said  Mr.  Lafitte,  tranquilly,  his 

voice  still  equable,  his  face  still  wearing  its  sardonic  smile  : 

•   "  Cruel  to  you  and  cruel  to  my  slaves.     Antony,  for  example." 

"  Yes,  Antony,"  she  replied,  speaking  in  a  calmer  voice,  as 
of  one  whose  sufferings,  whatever  they  might  be,  were  remote 
from  her,  or  as  nothing  to  her  own,  "Antony  is  one.  I  saw 
the  wretch  just  now,  as  I  went  down  to  the  cabins.  There 
you  have  him  bucked  in  this  scorching  heat,  his  head  bleeding 
where  you  and  Tassle  beat  him  with  your  whipstocks,  and  the 
flies  tormenting  him.  Is  there  another  planter  in  the  parish 
that  would  treat  that  boy  so  ?  No  wonder  he  ran  away,  like 
his  brother  before  him.  He  might  as  well  be  in  Hell  as  on  this 
plantation.  They  might  all  as  well  be  in  Hell — as  they  are. 
Sweltering  in  the  cotton-field,  on  a  Sunday,  too,  there  they 
are,  fifty  miserable  wretches — hark,  now  !  Tassle  is  laying  it 
on  to  some  of  them.  That  is  the  howl  of  some  of  the  wenches. 
Listen  to  that  !" 

Softened  by  the  distance,  but  heard  distinctly  in  the  sultry 
stillness,  came  up  from  the  cotton-fields  a  confusion  of  dismal 
screeches.  Madame  Lafitte  sullenly  listened,  till  they  wailed 
away,  the  planter  meanwhile  calmly  drinking  his  goblet  of  iced 
claret,  and  then  filling  the  glass  again  from  a  slender  bottle 
standing  in  a  cooler  on  the  table. 

"  These  are  the  sounds  I  have  to  listen  to,  day  after  day, 
and  year  after  year,"  hoarsely  murmured  Madame  Lafitte,  her 
bosom  heaving  convulsively  above  her  clasped  arms,  and  her 
eyes  burning  with  dark  fire  in  the  pale  gloom  of  her  face. 
"  Every  hour  in  the  day  they  come  from  the  field.  All 
through  the  evening  from  the  gin-house.  Day  and  night, 
night  and  day,  the  yelling  of  those  unhappy  creatures  is  dinned 
into  my  ears.  That  is  my  music." 


14  PROLOGUE. 

Mr.  Lafitte,  who  had  resumed  his  former  attitude,  and  was 
still  tilting  his  chair,  paused,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  his  wife, 
and  shook  with  long,  silent,  devilish  merriment,  his  black 
familiar  wobbling  meanwhile  in  the  pool  beneath  him.  Then, 
in  his  softest,  smoothest  voice,  he  began  to  curse  and  swear,  if 
what  was  rather  a  flood  of  profane  exclamations  may  be  so 
described.  All  names  held  sacred,  grotesquely  conjoined  with 
secular  names  and  titles,  and  poured  forth  in  fluent  and  rapid 
succession,  composed  the  outflow  of  a  profanity  inexpressibly 
awful,  both  from  its  nature  and  from  the  smooth  and  serene 
tones  in  which  it  found  utterance.  Madame  Lafitte  listened 
to  him  aghast,  for  she  had  never  heard  this  from  his  lips 
before,  and  a  dim,  blind  foreboding  that  it  portended  some 
horrible  change  in  his  attitude  toward  her,  filled  her  soul. 
Ending  it  presently  in  another  spasm  of  chuckling  merriment, 
as  if  what  seemed  a  mere  depraved  desire  for  blasphemy  was 
satisfied,  Mr.  Lafitte  took  up  the  conversation. 

"  It  is  positively  delightful,  Josephine,"  he  remarked,  "  to 
hear  you  lamenting  the  trouncing  of  the  dear  negroes.  But, 
not  to  dwell  upon  this  touching  outbreak  of  philanthropy ;  per 
mit  me — for  I  feel  refreshingly  wicked  to-day — permit  me  to 
ask  you,  my  angel,  if  you  know  what  made  me  marry  you  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  with  a  face  of  mingled 
wonder,  scorn  and  loathing. 

"  What  made  you  marry  me  ?"  she  repeated,  "  your  love,  I 
suppose — at  least,  what  you  call  love." 

"  Indeed,  no  Josephine,"  he  coolly  replied.  "  It  was  not  love 
at  all.  What  makes  a  man  keep  a  mistress  ?  For  that  was 
it,  and  nothing  more." 

At  this  atrocious  declaration,  Madame  Lafitte,  the  very  in 
most  temple  of  her  soul  profaned  and  defiled,  as  it  never  had 
been  till  then,  bowed  her  head  in  an  agony  of  shame. 

"Yes,  Josephine,"  he  continued,  "that  was  it.  You  were 
a  queen  of  a  girl  when  I  first  saw  you.  Young,  innocent,  gen 
tle,  enchanting,  the  most  beautiful  woman  then,  as  I  think 
you  are  now,  that  I  ever  beheld,  and  though  your  family  was 
poor,  you  were  accomplished  as  few  of  your  sex  ever  become. 
I  wanted  you  for  one  of  my  mistresses,  and  I  got  you  at  the 


PROLOGUE.  15 

little  expense  of  a  marriage  ceremony.  A  strict  moralist 

might  say  that,  at  best,  you  were  only  my ah,  the  coarse 

word  !  but  in  this  country  you  are  called  my  wife.  And, 
apropos,  do  you  know  what  they  call  this  union  of  ours,  con 
tracted  on  my  part  from  such  a  motive  ?  They  call  it  holy 
matrimony." 

Mr.  Lafitte,  with  a  negrine  ptchih,  went  off  in  a  spasm  of 
devilish  merriment,  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  bowed  and 
pallid  face  of  the  woman  opposite  him. 

"  You  were  in  love  with  young  Raynal  when  I  married 
you,"  he  continued,  "  and  you  were  bullied  and  badgered  by 
your  amiable  family  into  wedlock  with  me.  Of  that,  however, 
I  will  not  speak  now.  But  suppose,  Josephine,  that  you  wish 
a  divorce.  How  are  you  going  to  get  it  ?  On  what  grounds  ? 
Now  apropos  of  my  mistresses  :  by  the  law  of  Louisiana,  were 
you  false  to  me,  I  could  get  a  divorce  from  you.  By  the  same 
laws — oh,  how  I  love  them  ! — you  could  only  get  that  divorce 
from  me  if  I  kept  my  mistress  in  your  dwelling,  or  publicly 
and  openly.  Suppose  you  emigrated  to  another  State  where 
they  grant  divorces  on  the  ground  of  the  husband's  infidelity. 
Could  you  get  a  separation  then  ?  No.  Why  not  ?  Because 
you  have  no  evidence,  and  I  have  taken  good  care  that  you 
can  have  none.  Ha  1  my  dear,  what  do  you  think  of  your 
position  ?" 

"My  God,  my  God  !"  she  moaned,  "what  have  I  done 
that  I  should  be  outraged  thus  I  How  have  I  borne  this  life 
— how  can  I  bear  it  !  I  tell  you,  Lafitte,"  she  cried,  raising 
her  voice,  hoarse  with  anger  and  agony,  into  a  higher  key, 
and  throwing  out  her  arms  with  a  furious  gesture,  "  I  tell  you 
that  this  life  is  Hell.  I  know  now,  what  I  wondered  when  I 
was  a  child — where  Hell  is  and  what  it  looks  like.  It  is  here 
and  it  looks  like  this.  This  is  one  of  its  chambers,  and  this 
one  of  its  mansions.  These  walls,  those  books,  those  pictures, 
this  furniture,  that  fruit,  that  wine,  they  all  belong  to  it. 
Those  are  its  flowers  clambering  around  the  windows — this  is 
its  light  and  these  are  its  shadows — this  scorching  heat  is  the 
heat  of  it,  that  sun  is  the  sun  of  it,  these  slaves  swelter  in  it — 
I,  a  slave  like  them,  am  tortured  in  it,  and  you  are  the  fiend 


16  PKOLOGUE. 

of  it,  hard,  cruel,  sensual,  heartless,  pitiless  devil  that  you 
are  !" 

Flinging  her  arms  together  again  in  a  convulsive  clasp  on 
her  bosom,  her  frame  shuddering,  her  breath  coming  and 
going  in  quick  gasps  through  her  clenched  teeth,  which 
gleamed  behind  lips  deadly  white  and  tensely  drawn,  she 
glared  at  him  with  fixed  nostrils  and  flaming  eyes,  like  a  beau 
tiful  maniac.  Save  that  he  had  ceased  his  balancing,  that  his 
eyes  were  a  shade  more  tigerish,  and  that  his  form  crouched 
slightly  forward  in  his  chair,  Mr.  Lafitte  was  as  cool  and  col 
lected  as  ever,  and  his  face  wore  the  same  sardonic  smile. 

"  Now  Josephine,"  he  remarked  in  a  tone  more  nonchalant, 
serene  and  soft  than  before,  if  that  could  be,  "  let  me  close 
this  delightful  conversation  by  a  few  brief  observations  on  the 
value  of  opportunity.  First,  with  regard  to  the  dear  negroes. 
I  am  a  rich,  but  I  have  my  little  desire  to  be  a  very  rich 
planter.  Therefore  I  lay  plans  for  a  large  cotton  crop,  on 
which,  by  the  way,  I  have  heavy  bets  pending.  In  order  that 
I  may  have  the  large  crop,  which  means  a  great  deal  of 
money,  .and  in  order  that  I  may  win  my  bets,  which  are  con 
siderable,  I  make  the  dear  negroes  work  furiously.  But  in 
order  that  they  shall  work  with  due  ardor,  and  lest  that  ten 
der  bond  of  fidelity  and  devotion  to  their  master's ,  interests 
which  the  good  divines  up  north  expatiate  so  eloquently  upon 
— lest  that  should  not  sufficiently  inspire  them,  I  get  my  ex 
cellent  William  Tassle  to  stimulate  them  with  a  plantation 
whip,  and  I  stimulate  them  myself  with  another  when  I  feel 
like  it,  which  I  often  do.  And  they  labor  like  angels — dear 
me  !  how  they  do  spring  to  it,  to  be  sure  !  It  is  enchanting. 
Indeed  I  get  a  great  deal  out  of  them.  But  in  order  that  I 
may  get  a  great  deal  out  of  them,  I  must  flog  them  up  hand 
somely  at  their  work,  and  punish  them  profusely  after  their 
work  if  their  work  has  not  been  what  the  ardent  soul  of 
Lafitte  could  wish.  Hence  the  cruelty,  as  you  harshly  call  it, 
.my  Josephine — hence  the  floggings,  the  paddlings.  the  buck 
ings,  hence  the  bowlings  that  annoy  you,  my  angel,  and  which, 
by  the  way,  I  really  cannot  help,  since  the  black  beasts  will 
make  a  clamor — unless,  indeed,  I  could  induce  some  of  those 


PROLOGUE.  17 

cursedly  ingenious  Yankees  to  invent  me  a  patent  anti-howl 
ing  machine  for  their  abominable  throats.  Positively,  it  is  an 
idea,  and  I  must  reflect  upon  it.  But  see  now.  In  doing  all 
this,  I  only  avail  myself  of  my  legal  opportunities.  Could  I 
do  it  if  I  had  not  my  opportunities  ?  Alas,  no.  Could  I  do 
it  up  North  ?  Alas,  no.  I  should  not  have  my  opportunities. 
I  should  have  to  calculate,  and  circumvent,  and  plot  and 
scheme  till  my  poor  brain  would  be  fatigued,  and  then  be 
bothered  and  baffled  with  strikes  for  higher  wages,  and  ten 
hour  systems,  and  God  knows  what  else.  Now  here,  thanks 
to  our  good  Livingstone,  who  was  really  a  fine  jurist,  I  have 
a  code  which  gives  me  all  the  advantages  and  puts  my  black 
laborers  completely  and  comfortably  under  my  thumb.  They 
have  no  opportunities,  and  so  they  work  without  wages  and 
are  well  flogged  into  the  bargain.  I  have  my  opportunities, 
which  I  improve,  and  hence  they  work  for  me.  Ha  !  it  is 
charming  1  They  get  their  two  plantation  suits  a  year,  their 
three  and  a  half  pounds  of  bacon  and  their  peck  of  meal 
apiece  a  week,  which  is  not  costly,  and  keeps  them  in  working 
order.  They  are  up  early  and  down  late,  and  so  profits  accrue. 
Hence  the  value  of  opportunities  with  regard  to  the  dear 
negroes — my  little  exactions  of  whom  wound  your  sensibilities, 
my  angelic  Josephine." 

He  paused  to  drink  his  claret  slowly  and  refill  his  glass, 
keeping  his  eyes  fixed  upon  his  wife,  who  sat  secretly  wonder 
ing  what  he  meant  by  all  this  devilish  frankness. 

"  Now,"  resumed  the  planter,  "  observe  again  the  value  of 
opportunities  in  relation  to  yourself,  ma  chere.  I  marry  you. 
Good.  We  live  in  much  elegance,  to  your  soul's  delight,  in 
New  Orleans.  Good  again.  But  one  fine  day  I  bring  you 
up  here,  and  here  I  keep  you,  where  you  don't  want  to  stay. 
Why  do  you  stay,  then  ?  Ah  I  the  beautiful  social  system 
gives  me  the  opportunity  to  make  you.  Could  you  bring  me 
up  here'?  Oh,  no.  Could  you  make  me  stay  ?  Oh,  no. 
The  beautiful  social  system  does  not  give  you  that  opportu 
nity." 

"  No,"  she  cried,  "  it  gives  me  nothing." 

"And  why?"   he   continued.      "Is  it   because  you  are 


18  PROLOGUE. 

morally,  mentally,  or  in  any  way,  my  inferior  ?  Oh,  no. 
Why,  then  ?  Simply  because  you  are  a  woman.  You  are  less 
than  I  by  virtue  of  your  sex,  my  angel.  Ha  !  it  is  curious. 
The  beautiful  social  system  makes  you  something  like  my  slave, 
dear  wife.  I  bring  my  negroes  here,  and  I  bring  you  here. 
None  of  you  want  to  come,  but  you  can't  help  yourselves,  and 
so  come  you  do.  But  my  negroes  cannot  bring  me  here.  No. 
Nor  can  you  bring  me  here.  No.  Do  my  negroes  run  away  ? 
I  set  Dunwoodie's  hounds  after  them,  and  run  them  down. 
Do  you  run  away  ?  That  dear  old  Mrs.  Grundy  sets  her 
hounds  after  you,  and  runs  you  down.  Ah  I" 

He  paused  to  drink  a  little  claret,  keeping  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  her  face. 

"  Meanwhile,"  he  pursued,  "I  keep  you  in  perpetual  tor 
ment,  as  you  say.  Try  divorce.  You  have  no  cause  in  law, 
for  I  take  care  to  give  you  none.  My  little,  delicate,  subtle, 
intangible,  polite  aggravations — all  my  skillful  outrages  and 
profanations  of  your  soul  and  body,  which  drive  you  riiad,  or 
kill  you  slowly  like  poison,  are  not  recognized  in  law.  My 
courteous,  maddening  words  and  actions,  which  work,  it  is 
true,  the  effect,  and  worse  than  the  effect,  of  the  most  brutal 
physical  cruelty — they  a,re  all  perfectly  legal.  It  is  doubtful 
whether  they  could  even  be  stated  for  the  purposes  of  a 
divorce  suit.  They  are  so  subtle,  so  veiled  in  good  nature, 
courtesy,  kindness,  legality,  that  if  they  were  stated,  people 
probably  would  laugh  at  you,  and  think  you  dishonest  or 
deranged.  At  all  events,  though  they  slowly  madden  or  mur 
der  you,  they  constitute  no  breach  of  holy  matrimony." 

"  They  do,"  she  cried.  "  I  do  not  care  what  the  law  says; 
such  matrimony  as  I  live  in  is  not  holy.  It  is  " 

"Ah,  no,  dear  Josephine,"  he  interrupted.  " Decidedly 
you  are  wrong.  Go  to  court — swear  that  you  hate  me,  loathe 
me,  abhor  me — swear  that  life  is  insupportable  with  me,  and 
plead  for  release,  and  the  blessed  old  law  will  tell  you  that 
you  are  living,  and  must  live,  in  holy  matrimony  !  Go  to  any 
southern  State — go  to  South  Carolina,  and  state  my  refined 
and  delicate  cruelty.  Why,  Judge  Somebody  or  other,  in  the 
next  State,  boasts  that  it  is  the  unfading  honor,  as  he  calls  it, 


PROLOGUE.  19 

of  South  Carolina,  that  she  never  has  granted  a  divorce  for 
any  cause  whatever.  Well,  go  North — go  to  New  York,  for 
instance.  Why,  their  great  Panjandrum  np  there,  the  '  Tri 
bune  '  man — what's  his  name — Greeley — he  will  tell  you  that 
you  are  living,  and  must  live,  hi  holy  matrimony.  Bless  him  I" 
said  Mr.  Lafitte,  piously.  "  I  love  him.  I  love  him  well.  I 
hate  him  for  his  Abolitionism  :  I  love  him  for  his  views  on 
holy  matrimony.  I  hate  him  because  he  tries  to  weaken  my 
power  over  my  slaves :  I  love  him  because  he  tries  to 
strengthen  my  power  over  you,  my  angel.  So  do  the  rest  of 
them.  Go  to  any  State  you  like,  and  they  will  all  tell  you  that 
you  are  living,  and  must  live,  in  holy  matrimony.  Every  one, 
except  that  naughty,  naughty  Indiana.  Ah,  the  bad  State  ! 
The  wicked,  wicked  State,  that  says  a  discordant  marriage  is 
hell,  and  saves  people  from  it  at  the  expense  of  holy  malt i- 
mouy  !  But  you  couldn't  go  there  even  with  your  complaint 
of  cruelty,  for  you  haven't  a  single  witness — not  one;  and  if 
you  had,  you  wouldn't  go  there,  and  presently  I'll  tell  you 
why.  Meanwhile,  the  result  is,  that  there's  no  help  for  you  any 
where.  As  for  alleging  any  little  infidelities  on  my  part,  that 
is  clearly  absurd.  Thanks  to  our  good  Edward  Livingstone's 
code,  you  can  get  no  testimony  from  the  yellow  girls,  for 
slaves  are  not  witnesses,  you  know,  in  law;  and  as  for  getting 
any  legal  testimony  on  that  point,  that  I  take  care  you  can't 
get,  and  your  convictions  are  not  evidence,  my  angel.  Then, 
too,  observe  how  the  beautiful  social  system  favors  me.  My 
little  gaieties  are  reported,  for  instance,  in  New  Orleans. 
Well,  society  does  not  taboo  me.  Mrs.  Grundy  smiles  blandly 
upon  me  still.  The  men  laugh,  and  say,  '  Ah,  Lafitte,  you 
gay  dog  P  The  women  are  soft  as  cream,  and  sweet  as  sugar. 
Whereas  you — suppose  even  a  whisper  of  that  sort  about  you 
— even  an  idle  rumor— ah,  what  a  fine  howl  1  You  are  quite 
finished  at  once,  my  dear." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  elevated  his  eyebrows  with 
a  grimace  of  mock  pity,  keeping  his  carnivorous  eyes  still  fixed 
upon  the  raging  silence  of  her  face. 

"  And  now,"  he  went  on,  "  why  do  I  keep  you  here  ?  Why 
do  I  torture  you  daily  ?  I  answer — are  you  listening,  my 


20  PROLOGUE. 

cherished  one  ? — I  answer  that  it  is  my  little  vengeance. 
Harken,  Josephine.  You  and  that  handsome  young  Raynal 
were  in  love  with  each  other  when  I  first  saw  you.  You  were 
both  poor.  Raynal  has  got  rich  since,  but  he  was  then  poor 
as  charity.  I,  on  the  contrary,  was  wealthy,  and  your  family 
wouldn't  let  you  marry  Raynal,  but  were  anxious  that  you 
should  marry  me,  for  they  wanted  to  make  a  rich  match  for 
you.  You  liked  me  well  enough  then,  for  you  only  knew  the 
best  side  of  me,  which  the  ladies  say  is  charming;  but  you  did 
not  love  me.  I  pressed  my  suit,  however,  and  your  family 
worried  and  drove  you — poor  young  girl  of  fifteen,  that  you 
were — till,  unable — for  I  will  be  strictly  fair  to  you,  Jose 
phine — unable  to  resist  longer,  you  yielded,  and  I  got  you." 

"  Yes,  you  got  me  with  a  lie,"  she  passionately  cried. 
"  ffever  would  I  have  yielded,  had  you  and  they  not  lied  me 
into  believing  Raynal  had  abandoned  me  and  engaged  himself 
to  another." 

"  Oh,"  returned  Mr.  Lafitte,  with  a  leer,  "  you  have  found 
that  out,  have  you  ?  No  matter.  I  got  you,  and  you  dis 
covered  your  mistake  in  yielding  as  time  passed  on.  Then, 
the  year  before  I  brought  you  here,  when  you  were  in  much 
suffering — for  I  will  be  just  to  you,  Josephine — you  and 
Raynal  had  a  little  correspondence.  Ha  !  you  thought  I  did 
not  know  it !  But  I  found  it  out.  Your  treacherous  young 
Creole  wench  sold  me  your  secret,  and  I  took  copies  of  every 
letter  you  wrote  before  I  let  her  carry  them  to  Raynal.  I 
took  copies  also  of  his  before  they  went  to  you.  They  are  all 
eloquent,  and  I  love  to  read  them.  And  they  put  you  both 
in  my  power,  my  lady  1" 

He  saw  that  the  blow  struck  home.  She  sat  mute  and  still 
as  marble,  but  all  expression  had  gone  from  her  face ;  the  fire 
had  faded  from  her  eyes;  her  arms,  still  clasped  on  her  bosom, 
were  relaxed;  and  her  bosom  had  ceased  to  heave.  The 
planter  watched  her  with  an  infernal  smile  on  his  dark 
visage. 

"  With  those  letters  in  my  possession,"  he  continued,  "  you 
could  not  seek  release  even  in  Indiana.  For  writing  them,  you 
have  to  be  tortured  most  exquisitely  till  you  die,  as  before  you 


PROLOGUE.  21 

wrote  them,  you  had  to  be  tortured  for  having  loved  Raynal. 
And  yet,  Josephine,  I  believe  you  and  Raynal  to  be  people  of 
honor,  and,  though  you  loved,  to  have  written  those  letters 
with  innocent  hearts.  You  were  in  loveless  suffering,  and  you 
wanted  the  consolation  a  friend  could  give,  and  which  Raynal 
gave.  See  how  justly  I  state  it !  I  will  go  further — I  will 
admit  that  the  letters  are  such  as  two  friends  might  have 
written  to  each  other.  There  is  really  nothing  wrong  in  them. 
But  they  are  full  of  passages  which  are  too  equivocal  to  be 
read  in  a  court  of  law.  There  innocent  words  are  made  to 
seem  guilty.  And  those  letters,  without  much  twisting,  would 
convict  you  of  conjugal  infidelity,  my  beloved  Josephine." 

He  looked  at  her  with  fiendish  enjoyment,  but  she  sat  still, 
and  her  face  did  not  change. 

"  Ah  yes,  ma  chere!"  he  observed  after  a  long  pause,  slowly 
beginning  his  rocking  again,  and  thus  setting  in  motion  the 
lurking  shadow  beneath  him — "  you  and  that  dear  handsome 
young  Raynal  are  certainly  compromised.  Still  there  is  one 
consolation  for  you,  Josephine.  Really  -a  great  consolation. 
Namely,  that  you  are  reputably  married.  You  have  the 
honorable  position  of  a  legal  wife,  my  dear.  Is  it  not  con 
soling  ?" 

He  sat  for  a  full  minute  sardonically  smiling  at  her.  She 
did  not  turn  away,  nor  did  her  face  lose  its  blank  immobility. 

"  That  is  your  consolation,  sweet  wife,"  he  continued.  "  It 
is  the Hallo,  there  I  Tassle,  is  that  you  ?  Come  in." 

He  had  the  ear  of  a  cat  to  have  heard  the  steps  of  the  over 
seer  coming  up  the  grassy  lawn.  It  was  a  full  half  minute 
before  the  heavy  sluff  of  boots  was  audible  to  an  ordinary 
ear.  Then  came  their  lazy  thud  on  the  veranda,  and  the 
overseer  lounged  in.  A  short,  stocky,  burly  man,  with  heavy, 
sallow,  stolid  features.  He  had  a  broad,  straw  hat  set  back 
on  his  head,  was  dressed  in  coarse,  light  clothes,  and  was 
revolving  tobacco  in  his  open  mouth. 

"  Ha  !"  said  Mr.  Lafitte,  "it  is  he.  Good  William  Tassle. 
Faithful  William  Tassle.  Excellent  William  Tassle." 

The  overseer,  with  his  dull  eye  fixed  on  the  planter,  stopped 
chewing,  and  closing  his  mouth,  slowly  smiled. 


22  PROLOGUE. 

"  It  is  hot,  my  Tassle,"  blandly  observed  Mr.  Lafitte. 

"Hot  as — beg  pardon,  madame" — said  Mr.  Tassle,  check 
ing  himself  in  a  torrid  comparison,  with  a  rude  gesture  of 
deference  to  the  planter's  wife,  who  took  no  notice  of  his 
presence.  "It  singes  a  man's  nostrils  to  breathe  it,  Mr. 
Lafitte." 

"  Yes  ?"  replied  the  planter,  as  if  the  fact  were  of  great 
interest.  "  Then  how  it  must  singe  that  Antony's  nostrils, 
William.  That  poor  Antony.  We  must  have  him  up  here. 
I  must  admonish  him.  Fetch  him  along,  Tassle.  And  Tassle  " 
— the  overseer,  who  was  going,  paused — "just  bring  that  iron 
collar  that  hangs  in  the  gin-house.  You  know." 


II. 

The  overseer  nodded,  and  chewing  stolidly,  lounged  out  into 
the  yard,  where  stood  the  kitchen,  smoke-house,  and  other 
outbuildings,  and  going  on  through  the  orchard,  emerged 
upon  a  blinding  space  where  a  row  of  white-washed  cabins, 
with  the  gin-house  hard  by,  glared  in  the  hot  light.  A  few 
negro  children,  half  naked,  with  a  lean  and  sickly  old  hound, 
were  grouped  in  the  shade  of  the  gin-house.  Near  them,  in 
the  full  blaze  of  the  sunlight,  a  negro  man,  in  coarse  planta 
tion  clothes  of  a  dirty  white,  sat  on  the  ground  in  a  squatting 
posture,  feebly  shaking  his  bare  head,  to  keep  off  the  swarm  of 
insects  that  tormented  him.  This  was  Antony.  He  was 
bound  in  a  peculiar  manner — bucked,  as  the  plantation  slang 
has  it.  The  ankles  were  firmly  lashed  together — the  knees 
drawn  up  to  the  chest — the  wrists  also  firmly  pinioned  and 
passed  over  the  knees,  and  between  the  elbow-joints  and  the 
knee-pits,  a  short  stick  was  inserted,  thus  holding  movelessly 
in  a  bundle  of  agonizing  cramp  the  limbs  of  the  victim.  This 
infernal  torture — practised  by  the  tyrants  of  our  marine  on 
their  sailors — that  class  whose  helplessness  and  wrongs  most 
nearly  resemble  those  of  slaves — practised  also  on  wretched 
criminals  by  the  tyrants  of  our  jails — Antony  had  endured 
from  midnight  till  now,  about  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 


PEOLOGUE.  23 

Nine  years  Lafitte's  chattel,  lie  had  been  badly  used  from 
time  to  time,  and,  of  late,  dreadfully.  He  had  learned  to  read 
and  write  a  little  before  he  had  come  to  the  plantation,  and  a 
week  before  the  present  time  he  had  picked  up  a  scrap  of 
newspaper  on  which  was  a  fragment  of  one  of  those  declama 
tions  about  liberty,  which  southern  politicians  are  fools  enough 
to  be  making  on  all  opportunities,  amidst  a  land  of  slaves. 
The  fragment  had  some  swagger  about  the  northern  oppress 
ion  of  the  South,  which  Antony  did  not  understand  any  more 
than  anybody  else  ;  but  it  rounded  up  with  Patrick  Henry's 
famous  "  Give  me  Liberty  or  give  me  Death  !"  which  he  under 
stood  very  well;  for  from  that  moment  Liberty  or  Death  was  a 
phrase  which  spoke  like  a  voice  in  his  mind,  urging  him  to 
escape  from  his  bondage .  The  next  thing  was  to  write  a  pass, 
make  a  package  addressed  to  the  house  of  Lafitte  Brothers, 
New  Orleans,  and  with  this  evidence  of  his  assumed  mission 
endeavor  to  reach  that  city,  where  he  meant  to  smuggle  him 
self  into  the  hold  of  some  vessel  northward  bound. 

Clad  in  an  old  suit  of  Mr.  Tassle's,  which  he  had  taken  from 
the  gin-house,  and  boldly  riding  away  the  night  before,  on  a 
mare  borrowed  from  Mr.  Lafitte's  stables,  he  had  been  sud 
denly  met  on  a  turn  of  the  road — unaccountably  met  at  mid 
night—by  his  master  and  the  overseer,  who  seized  him  and 
found  his  forged  credentials  upon  him.  At  once,  he  had  been 
violently  beaten  over  the  head  with  their  whip-stocks  driven 
back  to  the  plantation,  reclothed  in  his  plantation  suit,  se 
curely  bound,  and  left  with  horrid  threats  of  torment  on  the 
morrow.  The  morrow  had  come,  and  here  he  was  in  utter 
misery,  half  crazy,  and  more  than  half  fancying  that  he  was 
in  Hell. 

Mi*.  William  Tassle,  his  tobacco  revolving  slowly  in  his  open 
mouth,  stood  and  stolidly  surveyed  him.  A  pitiable  object, 
truly  !  His  face  was  bruised  and  swollen,  and  from  wounds 
in  his  brow  and  cheek,  made  by  the  blows  of  the  whip-handles, 
a  dull  ooze  of  blood,  thinned  by  Iris  sweat,  had  spread  its  stain 
over  the  whole  countenance.  Around  the  wounds  buzzed  and 
clung  greedy  clusters  of  black  flies,  hardly  driven  off  by  the 
feeble  motions  of  his  head,  and  returning  every  instant.  His 


24  PROLOGUE. 

dark  face,  ashen  grey  and  flaccid  under  the  crimson  stain,  and 
faint  with  suffering,  wore  a  look  of  dumb  endurance  ;  his  eye 
lids  drooped  heavily  over  his  downcast  eyes  ;  and  his  breath 
came  in  short  gasps  through  the  bloody  froth  that  had  ga 
thered  on  his  loose  mouth.  His  wrists  were  cut  with  the  tight 
cords  that  bound  them,  and  his  hands  were  discolored  and 
swollen,  as  were  his  ankles.  Even  the  overseer  felt  a  sort  of 
rude  pity  for  him. 

"  Well,  Ant'ny,"  said  Mr.  Tassle,  slowly,  pausing  and  turn 
ing  his  head  aside  to  eject  a  vigorous  squirt  of  tobacco  juice, 
which  lit  upon  a  small  chip  and  deluged  a  fly  thereon,  throwing 
the  insect  into  quivering  spasms  of  torture  ;  "  you're  in  for  it, 
you  poor,  mis'ble  devil.  Yer  master's  goin'  to  admonish  ye,  so 
he  says.  Know  what  that  means,  don't  ye  ?  It's  all  up  with 
you,  Ant'ny." 

The  dumb,  bruised  face,  with  its  blood-shot  eyes,  feebly 
turned  up  to  his  for  a  moment,  then  drooped  away. 

"  Come,  now,"  said  Mr.  Tassle,  cutting  the  negro's  bonds 
with  two  strokes  of  a  jack-knife,  "  up  with  ye." 

Antony,  suddenly  released  from  his  cramped  posture,  fell 
over  ;  then  made  a  feeble  effort  to  crawl  up  on  his  hands  and 
knees,  tottered,  sank  down,  and  lay  panting.  Mr.  Tassle 
started  with  alacrity  for  the  gin-house,  the  black  piccaninnies 
scampering  and  tumbling  over  each  other  in  their  scramble  to 
get  away,  and  the  old  hound  sneaking  after  them.  Presently 
he  came  back  with  a  bucket  of  water  and  a  gourd.  Antony 
raised  himself  and  drank  from  the  gourd  ;  then  sat  up,  panting, 
but  relieved. 

"  Strip,"  said  Mr.  Tassle. 

Antony  tried,  and  was  helped  roughly  by  the  overseer,  who 
then  dashed  the  bucket  of  water  over  his  naked  body.  It  revived 
him,  for  he  presently  began  to  wipe  himself  feebly  with  his 
trowsers.  In  the  midst  of  this  operation,  Mr.  Tassle  seized 
him,  rolled  him  over  from  the  wet  ground  to  a  dry  spot,  and 
began  to  rub  his  arms  and  knees  vigorously  with  his  horny 
hand,  chewing  and  expectorating  rapidly  as  he  did  so.  Soon 
the  arrested  circulation  began  to  be  restored,  and  Antony,  get 
ting  his  clothes  on,  was  able  to  walk  up  and  down  in  a  brisk, 


PROLOGUE.  25 

tottering  walk,  the  calves  of  his  legs  loosely  shaking,  and  his 
legs  trembling  with  exhaustion. 

"  That'll  do,"  said  Mr.  Tassle,  at  length  ;  "you'll  be  ready 
for  your  floggin'  right  soon.  Here,  you  dam  cuss  of  a  nigger, 
drink  a  swallow  of  this.  That'll  set  you  up." 

Antony  took  the  proffered  whisky-flask — Mr.  Tassle's  pocket 
companion — and  gulped  the  liquor.  It  went  to  his  poor, 
famished  heart  like  fire,  and  shot  some  vigor  through  his 
numbed  veins. 

"  Damned  if  I  aiiit  a  philanthroper,"  growled  Mr.  Tassle. 
"  Lettin'  a  hell-bent  cuss  of  a  sooty  nigger  drink  my  whisky. 
No  matter.  Have  it  out  o'  yer  hide,  Ant'ny,  afore  supper 
time.  Now  pick  up  yer  feet  for  the  house.  Yer  master  has  to 
settle  with  yer." 

Antony  went  on  to  the  house,  Mr.  Tassle  following,  and 
contemplatively  regarding,  as  he  spat  and  chewed,  the  shaking 
calves  of  the  negro's  legs,  which  he  had  a  chance  to  do,  as  the 
old  trowsers,  too  short  in  the  first  instance,  were  now  split  up. 
the  backs,  nearly  to  the  knees,  and  feebly  flapped  as  the  slave 
tottered  on.  Antony  himself,  giddy  with  his  long  exposure  hi 
the  sun,  and  with  the  glow  of  the  liquor  he  had  drank,  felt  his 
poor  mind  wander  a  little,  and  was  conscious  of  nothing  so 
much  as  of  the  queer  tattered  shadow  that  bobbed  around  him, 
a-nd  which  he  half  fancied  would  trip  him  up  if  he  were  to  try 
to  run  away  now. 

An  indefinite  sense,  which  fell  upon  him  as  he  entered  the 
house,  and  slowly  walked  through  the  passage,  that  this 
guarding  shadow  had  fallen  behind  and  left  him,  was  suc 
ceeded  by  a  sense  as  vague,  that  the  shadow  he  now  saw  lurk 
ing  in  the  sunlight  on  the  floor  beneath  his  master's  chair, 
was  the  same,  and  that  it  had  gone  on  before  when  he  came 
into  the  passage,  and  would  leap  from  that  place  and  chase 
him  were  he  to  flee.  Dimly  conscious  of  this  fancy,  he  kept 
his  hot  eyes  fixed  upon  the  shadow — conscious  also  of  a  dread 
ful  sullen  hatred  rising  in  his  heart,  and  prompting  him  to 
spring  upon  his  tyrant  and  strangle  him,  though  he  died  for  it 
afterward.  Beyond  this,  he  was  vaguely  aware  that  Tassle 
had  put  something  that  clanked  on  the  table,  and  had  gone  ; 

2 


26  PROLOGUE. 

and  that  the  madame,  as  he  would  have  called  her,  was  present, 
sitting  very  still,  and  apparently  indifferent  to  him  or  anything 
that  might  happen  to  him. 

Suddenly  he  heard  the  smooth  and  quiet  voice  of  his  mas 
ter,  seeming  nearer  to  him  than  it  should  have  seemed. 

7  G) 

"  Well,  Antony,  so  it  appears  that  I  have  a  learned  nigger 
on  my  plantation.  Cousin  to  the  learned  pig,  I  suppose.  Did 
you  ever  hear  of  the  learned  pig,  Antony  ?" 

"  Never  did,  Marster." 

"  Indeed.     Then  you  never  heard  what  happened  to  him?" 

"  Never  did  hear,  Marster." 

"Ah  I  Indeed  !  Well,  he  ran  away,  and  was  caught,  and 
flogged,  and  bucked,  to  begin  with.  Just  like  you,  Antony. 
After  which  he  was  treated  so  that  he  wished  he  was  dead, 
Antony.  Just  as  you  are  going  to  be,  my  learned  nigger. 
Do  you  understand  ?" 

"  Yes,  Marster." 

Iii  this  colloquy,  Mr.  Lafitte's  voice  was  as  smooth  and 
tranquil  as  though  he  were  promising  his  servant  pleasures 
instead  of  pains.  Antony  had  answered  mechanically,  in  a 
voice  as  quiet  and  subdued  as  his  tyrant's,  with  the  slightest 
possible  quaver  in  his  husky  tones. 

"  So  you  can  read  and  write,  Antony,"  said  the  planter, 
after  a  pause. 

"  A  little  bit,  Marster." 

"  A  little  bit,  eh  ?  Yes.  Come,  now,  let's  have  a  speci 
men.  Here's  the  '  Picayune/  with  something  that  suits  your 
case."  Mr.  Lafitte  took  the  paper  from  the  table  as  he  spoke. 
"  A  little  bit  of  abolition  pleasantry  that  your  British  friends 
fling  at  the  South,  and  this  booby  editor  circulates.  Here, 
read  it  out." 

Antony  saw  his  master's  hand  extending  the  paper  to  him, 
with  the  thumb  indicating  a  paragraph.  Moving  nearer,  he 
mechanically  took  the  paper.  The  print  swam  dizzily  before 
his  eyes,  as,  with  a  halting  voice,  he  slowly  read  aloud  what 
was,  in  fact,  one  of  the  most  pungent  anti-slavery  sarcasms  of 
the  day  : 

"•'  From  the — London — Morning  Advertiser.     One  million 


PROLOGUE.  27 

dollars — reward.  Ran  away — from — the — subscriber — on  the 
18th  August — a  likely — Magyar  fellow  (Antony  boggled  ter 
ribly  over  '  Magyar '  which  he  thought  must  mean  mulatto), 
named — Louis — Kossuth.  He  is — about — 45— years  old — 
5  feet — 6  inches — high.  Dark — com-plexion,  marked— eye 
brows,  and — grey  eyes.' " 

"  Not  a  bad  description  of.  you,  Antony,"  interpolated  Mr. 
Lafitte.  "Quite  like  you,  in  fact.  Go  ahead." 

Antony  stammered  on,  losing  the  place,  and  beginning 
lower  down. 

"  '  Captains  and — masters — of  vessels — are — particularly — - 
cautioned — against — harboring — or — concealing — the  said — 
fugitive — on  board — their  ships — as  the — full — penalty — of 
the  law — will — be — rigorously — enforced." 

"  You  see,  Antony,"  again  interrupted  the  planter.  "  Yon 
reckoned,  I  suppose,  on  getting  off  in  a  ship,  when  your  nice 
scheme  got  you  to  New  Orleans.  Didn't  you,  my  nigger  Kos 
suth  ?  You'd  be  advertised  though,  and  caught,  just  like  him. 
Go  on." 

Unheeding  this  sally  of  Mr.  Lafitte's  cheerful  fancy,  Antony 
went  on,  losing  the  place  again,  and  getting  to  the  bottom  of 
the  paragraph. 

"  '  N.B. — If  the — fellow — cannot — be  taken — alive — I 
will  pay — a — reward — of  (Antony  boggled  again  over  the 
'250,000  ducats'  named,  and  called  it  twenty-five  dollars),  for 
his — scalp.  Terms  as — above.  Francis — Joseph — Emperor 
— of— Austria.' " 

"  Good,"  said  the  planter.  "  Your  scalp,  you  woolly-headed 
curse,  wouldn't  bring  that  in  the  market,  or  I'd  have  it  off,  and 
your  hide  with  it.  Lay  the  paper  down.  You  read  atrociously." 

Antony  laid  the  paper  on  the  table,  and  without  looking  at 
his  master,  fixed  his  blurred  eyes  on  the  floor  again. 

"  You  see,"  continued  the  planter,  "  how  runaways  get 
served.  You  have  been  told  both  by  Tassle  and  myself  that- 
even  if  you  got  North  you'd  be  sent  back.  We've  got  a  Fugi 
tive  Slave  Law  now  for  runaway  niggers,  and  back  they  come. 
You  go  to  Philadelphia.  That  good  Ingraham — that  good 
Judge  Kane — that  dear  Judge  Cadwallader — they  send  you 


28  PROLOGUE. 

back.  You  go  to  New  York.  Lord  !  There  everybody 
sends  you  back  !  You  go  to  Boston.  That  dear  Ben  Hallett 
grabs  you.  That  good  Sprague — that  good  Curtis — all  these 
good  people  grab  you,  as  they  grabbed  that  nigger  Sims,  and 
back  you  come.  Yet  you  try  it,  you  foolish  Antony.  Your 
cursed  brother  got  off  from  me  nine  years  ago,  and  so  you 
think  you'll  try  it  too.  Fine  fellows  both  of  you.  He 
leaves  Cayenne  pepper  in  his  tracks,  which  plays  the  devil 
with  the  hounds,  and  off  he  gets.  But  you've  had  to  smart 
for  him.  All  you've  got  since  has  been  on  his  account.  Now 
you'll  get  something  on  your  own.  I'll  teach  you  to  steal  my 
horse  and  make  off  for  the  river  with  your  forged  pass  and 
package.  Do  you  see  this  ?" 

Lifting  his  dizzy  eyes  to  the  level  of  his  master's  hand, 
Antony  saw  that  it  held  a  heavy  iron  collar  with  a  prong,  on 
which  he  read  in  stamped  letters,  LAFITTE  BROTHERS,  NEW 
ORLEANS. 

"  My  brother  had  a  nigger  that  wore  this  collar  once,"  said 
the  smooth,  cruel  voice,  "and  .now  you'll  wear  it.  If  you 
ever  get  away  again,  which  I'll  take  care  you  never  will, 
people  will  know  who  you  belong  to,  my  fine  boy.  Kneel 
down  here." 

Antony  felt  the  sullen  hatred  seethe  up  in  his  heart,  and  his 
brain  reeled. 

"  I  won't  have  that  collar  on  me,  Marster,"  he  huskily 
muttered.  "  You  may  kill  me,  Marster,  but  I  won't  have 
that  collar  on  me." 

"  You  won't,  eh  ?"  returned  Mr.  Lafitte,  tranquilly.  "  Oh, 
well  then,  if  you  won't,  you  won't.  By  the  way,"  he  pursued, 
carelessly  taking  the  paper  from  the  table,  and  fanning  him 
self  gently,  "  do  you  know  how  I  knew  you  were  going  to  run 
away  ?  I'll  tell  you.  I  was  standing  near  the  gin-house  last 
night  when  you  came  there  to  steal  Tassle's  old  clothes,  and  I 
heard  you  say  to  yourself — '  Now  for  liberty  or  death.'  Ah, 
ha,  Antony,  you  shouldn't  talk  aloud  !  Tassle  and  I  saw  you 
go  to  the  stable  and  take  the  mare,  and  then  we  saddled  and 
headed  you  off,  my  nigger.  That's  the  way  of  it.  Pick  up 
that  paper." 


PROLOGUE.  29 

Raising  his  eyes  to  his  tyrant's  feet,  Antony  saw  the  folded 
paper  there  where  it  had  been  dropped.  Approaching,  lie 
painfully  stooped  to  pick  it  up,  when  he  felt  himself  seized, 
thrown  down  upon  his  knees,  and  the  collar,  which  opened  in 
the  centre  on  a  strong  hinge,  was  around  his  neck!  He 
struggled  to  free  himself,  but  he  was  held,  and  the  collar 
closed.  In  an  instant  a  key  of  peculiar  wards  inserted  in  one 
of  the  cusps  of  this  devilish  necklace,  shot  a  bolt  into  the 
socket  of  the  other,  and  Mr.  Lafitte,  taking  out  the  key,  and 
putting  it  into  his  pocket,  quietly  spat  in  the  face  of  the  man 
whose  neck  he  had  just  fettered,  and  spurning  him  violently 
with  his  foot,  hurled  him  backward  from  his  knees  with  a 
dreadful  shock  over  on  the  floor. 

Stunned  for  a  moment,  Antony  lay  motionless  on  his  side. 
He  knew  that  his  master  had  risen,  for  as  he  turned  his  head, 
he  saw  the  hideous  shadow  dart  suddenly  from  the  pool,  and 
vanish,  as  though  it  had  entered  the  planter.  On  his  feet 
the  next  instant,  with  a  dark  cloud  of  blood  bellowing  in  his 
brain,  he  saw  with  bloodshot  eyes,  Lafitte  standing  before 
him,  with  a  calm,  infernal  smile  on  his  visage,  and  all  the  tiger 
in  his  tawny  orbs.  The  next  second  Madame  Lafitte  swept, 
like  a  superb  ghost,  between  him  and  his  revenge. 

"  Stay,  Josephine,"  yelled  the  planter,  his  voice  no  longer 
issuing  smooth  and  soft  from  the  throat,  but  tearing  up  from 
his  lungs  in  a  loud,  harsh  snarl — "remain  here.  This  enter 
tainment  is  for  you.  You  object  to  the  howls  of  my  black 
curs.  I  bring  one  here — into  this  room — whose  howls  shall 
split  your  ears." 

She  turned,  as  he  spoke,  on  the  threshold  of  the  room,  and 
advancing  toward  him,  paused.  For  one  instant  she  stood, 
imperial  in  her  beauty,  her  magnificent  form  drawn  to  its  full 
height,  her  haughty  brow  corrugated,  her  eyes  burning  like 
bale-fires,  her  outraged  blood  flooding  her  countenance  with 
one  vivid  crimson  glow.  The  next  instant  she  strode  forward, 
and  smote  him  a  sounding  bufiet  on  the  face.  Then,  without 
a  word,  and  with  the  step  of  an  empress,  she  swept  from  the 
room. 

Lafitte  turned  purple  and  livid  in  spots,  and  tottering  back, 


30  PROLOGUE. 

fell   into   his   chair.     Struck  !     By  her !     Before  his  slave  ! 
Glaring  up,  he  met  the  blood-shot  eyes  of  Antony. 

"  Dog  !"  he  yelled  ;  "  you  are  there,  are  you  I  Wash  my 
spittle  from  your  face  with  this  1" 

For  a  second,  Antony  stood  holding  his  breath,  with  the 
wine  the  planter  had  dashed  into  his  face,  dripping  from  him, 
and  steaming  in  his  nostrils.  For  a  second  afterward,  he 
stood  unwincing,  the  fragments  of  the  shattered  goblet  which 
followed,  stinging  his  flesh.  The  next,  his  whole  being  rose  in 
a  wild,  red  burst  of  lightning,  and  the  throat  of  Lafitte  was  in 
his  right  hand,  his  left  crushing  back  the  hand  which  had 
struck  at  him  with  a  bowie-knife  as  he  sprung.  With  his  right 
knee  set  solid  on  the  abdomen  of  the  planter,  pinning  the  writh 
ing  form  to  the  chair,  he  saw  the  devilish  face  beneath  him 
redden  in  his  gripe,  and  deepen  into  horrible  purple,  and 
blacken  into  the  visage  of  a  fiend,  with  bloody,  starting  eye 
balls,  and  protruding  tongue.  Still  keeping  that  iron  clutch 
of  an  aroused  manhood  on  his  tyrant's  throat,  he  heard  the 
mad,  hoarse  gurgle  of  his  agony,  and  felt  the  struggling  limbs 
relax  and  lose  their  vigor  beneath  him.  And  then  yielding  to 
an  impulse  of  compassion  his  master  never  knew,  and  which 
rose  louder  than  the  bellowing  voices  of  his  revenge,  he 
unclasped  his  hold,  and  saw  the  body  slide  flaccid  and  gasping 
to  the  floor. 

Away,  Antony  \  The  bitter  term  of  your  bondage  is  over, 
and  there  is  nothing  now  but  Liberty  or  Death  for  you  ! 
Death  ?  Ay,  Death  in  the  land  of  Liberty  for  the  man  who 
repays  long  years  of  outrage  with  one  brave  grip  on  the 
throttle  of  his  oppressor  !  Death,  when  the  savage  planters 
muster  to  avenge  their  fellow,  and  drag  you  down  to  yon 
bayou,  to  shriek  and  scorch  your  life  away  among  the  sappy 
fagots  of  the  slow  fire  !  Death  like  this,  or  else  by  gnawing 
famine,  or  the  beasts  and  reptiles  of  the  swamp  whose  beckon 
ing  horrors  soon  must  close  around  you  !  Liberty  or  Death — 
and  Liberty  a  desperate  chance,  a  thousand  miles  away. 

He  stood  for  an  instant,  panting,  with  a  wild  exultation 
pouring  like  fire  through  his  veins.  Then  snatching  the  heavy 
bowie-knife  from  the  floor,  he  sprang  from  the  room,  and  leaped 


PROLOGUE.  31 

on  the  veranda  just  as  the  overseer,  who  had  come  up  again 
from  the  fields,  had  set  one  foot  on  the  steps  to  ascend.  Flying 
against  him  full  shock,  he  threw  him  backward  clear  and  clean 
off  his  feet,  and  saw  his  head  bounce  with  a  terrific  concussion 
on  the  grass  as  he  sped  on  over  the  stunned  body.  He  did  not 
pause,  nor  look  behind,  but  flew  with  the  rush  of  a  race-horse 
for  the  swamp.  The  light^wind  had  risen,  and  the  grain  in 
the  fields  and  the  scattered  trees  on  either  side,  and  in  the 
skirting  woods  beyond,  and  all  the  lurking  shadows,  waved, 
and  tossed,  and  lifted  under  the  sultry  vault,  as  he  sped  his 
desperate  course,  while  the  hot  landscape  rushed  to  meet  him, 
and  ran  whirling  by,  closing  around  and  behind  him,  and  seem 
ing  to  follow  as  he  flew.  Across  the  lawn,  its  grass  and  wild- 
flowers  sliding  dizzily  beneath  him — up  with  a  flying  leap 
across  the  fence,  which  vanished  below  him — and  down  with  a 
light  shock  on  the  red  plantation  marl  which  rose  to  meet 
him,  and  reeled  from  under  him  as  he  bounded  on.  Away, 
with  frantic  speed,  over  rows  of  cotton-plants,  bruised  be 
neath  his  feet,  and  gliding  from  under  him — away,  with  a 
wilder  leap,  as  the  loud  shouts  of  the  slaves  in  full  chorus  struck 
his  ear,  and  he  saw  them  all,  men  and  women,  with  open 
'mouths  and  upthrown  arms,  stand  with  the  mules  and  ploughs 
in  the  field  on  one  side,  and  vanish  from  his  flying  glimpse  as  he 
fled  by.  Away,  with  every  nerve  and  sinew  desperately  strung 
— with  his  pained  heart  knocking  against  his  side — with  his 
held  breath  bursting  from  him  in  short  gasps — with  the  sweat 
reeking  and  pouring  down  his  body,  and  dropping  in  big  drops 
from  his  face,  to  be  caught  upon  his  clothes  in  his  speed — 
with  the  bright  knife,  as  his  last  refuge,  clutched  in  Ins  grasp 
— with  the  one  thought  of  Liberty  or  Death  burning  in  the 
whirl  of  his  brain.  Past  the  plantation  now,  his  feet  thudding 
heavily  on  a  hard,  black  soil — on,  with  the  swarming  hum  of 
innumerable  insects,  murmurously  swirling  by — on,  with  the 
light  and  rapid  current  of  the  hot  south  wind  cool  on  the  pain 
and  fervor  of  his  face,  and  swiftly  purring  in  his  ears — on,  over 
rushing  grass  and  flowers,  imd  stunted  shrubs  and  butts  of 
trees — up  again  with  a  furious  leap  over  a  fence  that  sinks, 
and  down  again  with  a  heavy  thump  on  ground  that  rises — 


32  PROLOGUE. 

on  and  away  at  headlong  speed  over  a  field  of  monstrous 
stumps,  scattering  the  light  chips  as  he  flies — in  now  with  a 
bound  among  the  bright-green  leaves  of  a  thick  palmetto 
bottom,  and  on  with  a  rush  through  the  swish,  swish,  swish  of 
their  loud  and  angry  rustle,  as  he  crashes  forward  to  the  still 
gleam  of  the  bayou.  Now  his  feet  swash  heavily  on  a  grassy 
turf  that  yields  like  sponge,  and  water  fills  his  shoes  at  every 
bound.  Now  the  water  deepens,  and  he  sinks  above  his 
ankles  or  midway  to  his  knees,  as  he  splashes  forward  with 
headlong  velocity,  half-conscious  and  wholly  careless  in  his 
desperate  exultation  that  black  venomous  water-snakes 
writhe  up  behind  him  as  he  plunges  through  their  pools. 
Now  he  bounds  over  a  bank  of  black  mire,  and  swerves  in  his 
course  as  something  like  a  dirty  log  changes  to  an  alligator, 
and  lumbers  swiftly  toward  him  with  yawning  jaws.  And 
now  splashing  through  the  green  slime  of  the  margin,  he 
bursts  with  a  plunge  into  the  glistening  waters  of  the  bayou, 
and  swims  with  vigorous  strokes,  while  the  gaunt  bittern  on 
the  bank  beyond  scrambles  away  with  squawking  screams. 
Swimming  till  the  water  shoals,  he  flounders  on  again  through 
slime  to  mire,  and  over  another  bog  of  pools  and  water-plants 
and  spongy  sod,  till  gaining  the  outskirts  of  the  dense  forest, 
and  reaching  a  patch  of  damp,  black  earth  under  an  enor 
mous  cypress-tree,  he  slackens  his  pace,  stops  suddenly,  and 
throwing  up  his  arms  upon  the  trunk,  drops  his  head  upon 
them,  panting  and  blowing — and  the  first  mile-heat  of  the 
dreadful  race  for  Liberty  or  Death  is  run  1 


PROLOGUE.  33 

III. 

For  a  few  minutes,  exhausted  with  the  terrible  speed  he 
had  maintained,  Antony  leaned  upon  his  arms  with  closed 
eyes,  his  breath  suffocating  him,  his  heart  painfully  throbbing, 
his  limbs  aching  and  trembling,  and  the  water  dripping  from 
his  clothes  and  trickling  away  on  the  black  soil  in  small 
streams.  The  trees  whispered  over  him  as  he  panted  beneath 
them,  and  their  mysterious  murmurs  were  the  only  sounds, 
save  his  own  stertorous  breathings,  that  were  heard  in  the 
dead  stillness.  Recovering  his  breath  in  a  few  minutes,  he 
lifted  his  head  and  turned  around,  letting  his  pained  arms  fall 
heavily  by  his  side.  He  was  no  longer  oppressed  with  heat, 
for  the  plunge  in  the  bayou  had  cooled  him  ;  but  his  whole 
body  ached  not  only  with  the  exertions  of  the  last  few 
minutes,  but  from  the  previous  torture  of  the  bucking,  and 
already  his  strength,  heavily  taxed  by  his  long  abstinence 
from  food  (for  it  was  now  more  than  fifteen  hours  since  he 
had  eaten),  and  only  sustained  by  the  intense  excitement  he 
had  undergone,  began  to  flag.  His  brain  reeled  and  whirled 
still,  and  his  apprehension  was  confused  and  dull.  Gradually 
he  began  to  be  more  sensible  of  the  sore  and  swollen  condition 
of  his  wrists  and  ankles,  of  the  smart  of  the  wounds  in  his 
forehead,  and  the  stinging  of  the  fragments  of  glass  in  his 
face.  There  was  one  sore  spot  in  his  chest  just  beneath  his 
shoulder,  which  for  a  few  moments  he  was  at  a  loss  to  account 
for,  till  he  suddenly  remembered  that  his  tyrant's  foot  had 
struck  him  there  when  he  had  kicked  him  over  upon  the. floor. 
At  the  same  instant  he  felt  the  chafe  of  the  iron  collar  on 
his  neck,  and  raising  his  hand  suddenly,  it  struck  against  the 
blunt  point  of  the  prong.  Gnashing  his  teeth  with  rage  as 
the  scene  in  that  room  rose  in  his  mind,  he  seized  the  collar 
with  both  hands,  and  with  a  fierce  imprecation,  strove  to  rend 

it  asunder.     But  the  lock  remained  firm,  and  convulsed  with  a 

* 

bitter  sense  of  humiliation,  as  he  thought  of  that  accursed 
badge  of  his  servitude  inexorably  riveted  -'to  his  neck,  the 
miserable  man  burst  into  tear& 

It  was  but  a  brief  spasm,  and  summoning  up  new  courage 

2* 


34  PROLOGUE. 

to  his  failing  heart  as  he  remembered  that  his  dreadful  journey 
lay  still  before  him,  he  cast  his  eyes  around  into  the  swamp. 
Softened  by  the  foliage  of  the  wilderness  of  gigantic  trees,  and 
duskily  lighting  the  long  streamers  of  melancholy  moss  which 
greyed  their  green,  the  sultry  sunlight,  slanting  athwart  the 
enormous  trunks,  and  tinting  with  sullen  brilliance  the  scarlet, 
blue  and  yellow  blossoms  of  parasitical  plants  which  sprinkled 
the  boles  and  branches  in  thick-millioned  profusion,  glistered 
on  the  muddy  shallows  of  the  morass,  whose  dismal  level, 
broken  here  and  there  by  masses  of  shadow,  and  huge  bulks 
of  fallen  timber,  stretched  far  away,  like  some  abominable 
tarn  of  slush  and  suds,  into  vistas  of  horrid  gloom.  Here  and 
there,  stranded  on  shoals  of  mire,  or  basking  on  pieces  of 
floodwood,  alligators,  great  and  small,  sunned  their  barky 
hides  ;  while  from  every  shallow  pool,  or  wriggling  around 
drifting  logs  or  trunks  of  fallen  trees,  the  venomous  moccasin- 
snakes,  whose  bite  is  certain  death,  lifted  their  black  devilish 
heads  by  scores,  and  made  the  loathsome  marsh  more  loath 
some  with  their  presence.  Over  the  frightful  quagmire 
brooded  an  oppressive  stillness,  broken  only  by  the  mournful 
and  evil  whispering  of  the  trees,  or  by  the  faint  wriggling 
plash  of  the  water-serpents.  Thick,  sickly  odors  of  plants  and 
flowers,  blent  with  the  stench  of  the  morass,  burdened  the 
stagnant  air,  through  whose  languid  warmth  chill  breaths 
crept  from  the  dank  and  dense  arcades  of  the  forest.  Yast, 
malignant,  desolate  and  monstrous,  loomed  in  the  eyes  of  the 
wretched  fugitive,  the  awful  road  to  Liberty  or  Death. 

His  soul  shrank  from  treading  it.  The  fire  had  faded  from 
his  heart,  and  in  that  moment  death  by  his  own  hand,  for  he 
would  not  be  captured,  seemed  preferable  to  the  terrors  of  the 
fen.  Faint,  weak,  famished,  weary  unto  agony,  his  whole 
body  one  breathing  ache,  his  spirit  all  unnerved  with  the  sense 
of  his  past  and  present  misery,  and  nothing  but  despair  before 
him,  how  could  he  hope  to  go  on  and  live.  Yet  he  could  not 
remain  here.  Soon  the  hounds  would  be  on  his  track — they 
would  cross  the  bayou  he  had  swam,  and  strike  his  trail.  He 
must  plunge  still  further  into  the  swamp  to  distance  them,  or 
Ue  must  die  here  by  the  knife  in  his  hand. 


PROLOGUE.  35 

He  turned  and  looked  over  the  bayou  far  up  the  lowland  to 
the  plantation  a  mile  away.  Suddenly  he  started,  clutching 
the  knife  with  a  firm  grasp,  his  eyes  flashing,  his  teeth  and 
nostrils  set,  and  his  manhood  once  again  flooding  his  heart 
with  fire.  Figures  near  the  mansion — figures  on  horseback, 
guns,  flashing  in  the  sun,  in  their  hands — one,  two,  three, 
four,  five,  six- — six  mounted  horsemen — and,  lower  down  on 
the  lawn,  what  are  those  things  running  in  circles  ?  Hark  ! 
Far  off  a  long,  harsh,  savage,  yelling  bay.  The  hunt  is  afoot, 
and  the  hounds  have  struck  the  trail  !  Away,  Antony,  for 
Liberty  or  Death  ! 

Eyes  flashing,  teeth  and  nostrils  set,  every  nerve  and  sinew 
valorously  strung,  he  turned  with  a  leap,  and  rushed  straight 
into  the  morass.  Before  the  headlong,  desperate  courage  of 
his  charge,  the  loathsome  tenants  of  the  swamp  gave  way. 
Plunging  from  the  floodwood,  the  affrighted  alligator  trundled 
oif,  and  the  startled  moccasins  slipped  and  writhed  from  his 
path  at  the  noise  of  his  coming.  Hark,  again  !  Nearer  than 
before  the  booming  yell  of  the  hounds.  Speed,  Antony  !  It 
is  the  Sabbath  of  the  Lord  our  God,  and  we  hunt  you  down. 
What  man  shall  there  be  among  us  that  shall  have  one  slave, 
and  if  it  fly  into  the  morass  on  the  Sabbath  day,  shall  he  not 
set  hounds  upon  it  and  hunt  it  down  ?  Speed  on,  dark  chat 
tel  !  The  good  Christians  of  St.  Landry  and  Avoyelles  are 
spurring  hard  upon  your  trail,  and  in  the  land  over  which  the 
memory  of  Christ  stretches  like  the  sky,  well-doing  such  as 
theirs  is  lawful  on  the  Sabbath  as  on  every  other  day  ! 

Splashing  and  swashing  on  over  the  slushy  surface  of  the 
quagmire,  now  sinking  no  deeper  than  the  soles  of  his  shoes, 
now  plashing  up  to  his  shins,  .now  to  his  knees,  now  nearly  to 
his  thighs,  now  bounding  upon  logs  and  fallen  trunks,  or  rush 
ing  over  masses  of  brushwood  and  briers,  which  switched  and 
stung  his  ankles,  he  could  still  hear,  at  brief  intervals,  the 
savage  yowling  of  the  hounds.  As  yet  there  was  no  safety, 
for  the  dogs  could  still  scent  his  trail,  here  and  there,  on  the 
shoals  of  mire  or  clumps  of  bog  over  which  he  had  passed. 
His  hope  was  in  reaching  deeper  water,  or  arriving  at  some 
broad  bayou  which  would  effectually  impede  their  course, 


36  PROLOGUE. 

Goaded  by  his  imminent  peril,  for  he  soon  heard  the  long 
yells  much  nearer,  and  knew  that  the  cruel  brutes  were 
rapidly  gaining  on  him — he  floundered  frantically  on,  his  heart 
leaping  in  his  throat  at  every  howl,  and  the  sweat  gathering 
in  cold  drops  on  his  face.  Soon,  to  his  great  joy,  the  foul 
lagoons  began  to  deepen,  the  water  reaching  more  uniformly 
above  his  knees,  and  at  length  he  came  upon  a  space  through 
which  he  floundered  for  more  than  half  an  hour,  sinking  to  his 
thighs  at  every  plunge,  and  knew  by  the  confused  and 
lessening  clamor  of  the  dogs,  that  he  was  leaving  .them.  He 
did  not  slacken  his  pace,  though  the  depth  of  the  water  made 
it  still  more  difficult  to  travel,  till  at  last  he  entered  a  horrid 
grove  of  gloom,  where  the  pyramidal  clumps  from  which  shot 
up  the  straight,  dark  pillars  of  the  cypresses,  were  submerged 
in  the  inky  flood,  and  sinking  above  his  hips,  he  was  forced  to 
move  more  slowly.  Fiercely  plunging  on  through  the  cold 
black  tarn,  over  a  soft  bottom  of  leaves  and  moss,  which  sank 
loathsomely  beneath  his  tread,  like  a  subfluvial  field  of  sponge, 
he  heard  again  the  harsh  yells  of  the  dogs,  and  they  now 
seemed  nearer  than  before.  He  strove,  but  vainly,  to  move 
on  faster,  and  his  fancy  ran  riot  as  he  thought  of  the  hounds 
slopping  on  through  the  fen,  and  coming  into  sight  of  him. 
Already,  in  his  delirious  fancy,  he  heard  the  wild  and  savage 
yowls  of  that  moment,  and  the  exulting  halloos  of  his  pursu 
ers.  The  dogs  would  leap  into  the  shallow  ponds — they  would 
swim  faster  than  he  could  wade — he  would  hear  their  savage 
panting  close  behind  him — he  would  turn  and  feel  them  flop 
upon  him,  and  their  sharp  teeth  crush  into  his  flesh— he  would 
strike  them  with  his  bowie-knife — he  would  see  the  black 
water  redden  with  their  blood — they  would  overbear  him  and 
drag  him  down  with  yelling,  and  howling,  and  frantic  splash 
ing  and  struggling,  while  the  shouting  planters  would  come 
riding  through  the  swamp  and  seize  him.  Lashed  into  frenzy 
by  tne  anticipated  drama,  he  brandished  the  knife,  with  a 
hoarse  cry,  and  staggering  forward,  suddenly  sank  to  his  arm 
pits.  An  instant  of  alarm,  succeeded  by  wild  joy,  for  the 
water  had  deepened,  and  striking  out,  he  swam.  Clogged  by 
his  heavy  shoes,  now  filled  with  mud,  and  soaked  to  an  added 


PROLOGUE.  37 

weight  with  water,  it  was  hard  swimming;  but  his  fear  and 
fury  gave  him  superhuman  energy,  and  nerved  with  unnatural 
vigor  his  weakened  thews.  He  swam  for  a  long  time,  with 
the  solemn  night  of  the  dense  cypress  dusking  his  form  and 
shadowing  the  tarn.  At  length  the  dreadful  twilight  of  the 
grove  began  to  lighten,  and  far  beyond  he  saw  the  sunlight 
illuminating  the  grey  and  green  of  the  trees,  and  the  many 
colored  parasites  and  flowers,  and  shining  on  the  mud  and 
water  of  the  marsh.  Presently  he  struck  bottom,  and  wading 
again  for  a  long  distance,  emerged  at  length  into  the  sunlight, 
among  the  shallows  and  mud-shoals,  and  rushed  on  as  before,  till 
at  last,  as  the  sun  was  near  its  setting,  he  stood  on  the  banks 
of  an  unknown  river,  which,  whispering  sullenly  past  its  mar 
gin  of  sedge  and  water-flowers,  moved,  with  an  imperceptible 
motion,  through  the  solemn  and  horrible  wilderness  of  forest. 

He  stood  gazing  across  it  with  a  haggard  and  mournful 
countenance.  The  croak  of  frogs  came  faintly  from  its  border, 
and  mingled  with  the  distant  quacking  of  crowds  of  mallard 
ducks  from  the  opposite  shore,  the  vague  hooting  of  owls  in 
the  swamp  beyond,  and  the  occasional  plunge  of  an  alligator 
from  the  adjacent  margin.  Dreary  and  ominous  sounds,  which 
yet  hardly  disturbed  the  stagnant  stillness  around  him.  The 
wind  had  lulled,  and  no  whisper  came  from  the  bearded  trees, 
which  stood  like  boding  shapes  on  every  side.  Hope  was  faint 
in  the  heart  of  the  fugitive.  Relieved  from  the  engrossment 
of  the  immediate  peril,  his  spirit  began  to  come  under  the  sole 
dominion  of  the  brooding  horrors  around  him,  and  as  he  vainly 
pondered  on  the  dark  problem  of  his  deliverance,  Death  seemed 
ever  gathering  slowly  toward  him,  and  Liberty  lessening  in  ever 
growing  distance. 

Liberty  or  Death.  The  historic  phrase  came  to  him  again 
like  a  voice  that  urged  him  forward.  He  paused  only  a  little 
longer,  to  tear  a  strip  from  his  coarse  shirt  and  tie  the  bowie- 
knife  at  the  back  of  his  neck  to  the  iron  collar.  Then  tearing 
another  strip,  he  pulled  off  his  heavy  brogans,  shook  the  mud 
out  of  them,  and  passing  the  strip  through  .the  eyelets,  he  also 
secured  them  to  the  collar,  one  on  each  shoulder.  So  accou 
tred,  he  braced  himself  anew  for  effort,  and  taking  up  a  slen- 


38  PROLOGUE. 

der  sapling  from  the  ground  to  beat  the  pools  between  him 
and  the  bayou — for  he  now  feared  the  moccasins — in  a  few 
moments  he  wag  in  the  water,  steadily  swimming  forward,  with 
the  sapling  held  in  his  teeth. 

Gaining  the  opposite  bank,  he  stopped  on  a  patch  of  black 
mire,  to  put  on  his  shoes,  and  then  went  forward,  beating  the 
path  before  him.  Dreadful  apprehensions  of  the  beasts  and 
reptiles  which  inhabited  the  swamp,  now  crowded  on  his  mind, 
while  to  add  to  his  distress,  the  sunlight  in  the  forest  spaces 
was  stealing  rapidly  upward  from  the  foliage  of  the  loftiest 
trees.  Quickening  his  pace,  he  staggered  on  through  the 
haunted  dusk  of  the  tree-trunks,  with  the  hooting  of  the 
swamp  owls,  the  quacking  of  innumerable  ducks,  the  bellowing 
and  plunging  of  alligators,  the  screeching  and  screaming  of 
strange,  semi-tropic  birds,  the  howling  of  distant  beasts,  and 
the  multitudinous  croak  of  frogs,  sounding  on  every  side 
around  him. 

He  broke  into  a  heavy  run,  came  at  length  to  a  thinner 
part  of  the  forest,  and  presently  emerged  upon  a  vast  open 
space  of  quagmire,  stretching  two  or  three  miles  away,  with 
scattered  trees  standing  and  leaning  in  all  directions  in  its 
broad  expanse.  Here  he  paused. 

The  sun  had  sunk  behind  the  distant  forest,  tinging  the 
misty  sky  far  up  the  zenith  with  lowering  red,  and  suddenly, 
as  by  some  fell  enchantment,  the  swamp  had  become  a  sullen 
slough  of  blood.  Shadows  of  inky  blackness  stretched  athwart 
the  red  expanse,  and  the  distorted  trees  that  crossed  and  in 
tercrossed  each  other  here  and  there,  were  giant  eldritch 
shapes  of  unimaginable  things.  Lank  and  hairy — all  askew 
and  bristling — clothed  as  with  fearful  rags — with  monstrous 
heads  ahunch  in  unnatural  places,  and  shaggy  jags  of  droop 
ing  beards,  and  dusky  arms  grotesquely  forked  and  twisted, 
and  huge  lengths  of  gaunt  body  that  abruptly  splayed  and 
sprawled  in  malformed  feet — they  loomed  from  the  fen  of 
murky  gore  against  the  angry  color  of  the  sky,  like  some 
black  congress  of  ambiguous  mongrel  wizards  whose  spell  was 
on  the  scene.  All  around  beneath  them,  protruding  from  the  red 
lagoons,  huge  .butts  of  logs,  gnarled  stumps,  and  black  knees 


PKOLOGTJE.  39 

of  cypress,  squatted  and  crouched  like  water-fiends.  Through 
the  dusky  air,  laden  with  the  damp  smell  of  the  swamp,  fright 
ful  brown  bats  whirled  clacking  to  and  fro  in  the  red  light  like 
lesser  demons  on  the  wing.  From  every  side  came  hootings 
and  croakings,  screechings  and  wailiqgs,  howlings  and  bellow- 
ings  and  sullen  plunges,  like  the  riotous  clamor  of  devils  at 
some  tremendous  incantation.  A  sense  of  supernatural  horror 
pervaded  all,  and  weighed  upon  the  appalled  heart  of  the 
trembling  fugitive. 

He  hesitated  a  few  moments  whether  to  cross  this  dreary  ex 
panse,  or  strike  off  into  the  denser  forest,  but  decided  to  go 
forward.  Whipping  a  pool  before  him  which  did  not  move, 
he  was  just  setting  his  foot  in  it,  when  the  venomous  face  of 
a  moccasin  rose  at  him  with  a  dark  slapping  flash.  He  sprang 
back  simultaneously,  and  saw  the  monster  vanish,  feeling  at 
the  same  time  a  sharp  pang  just  above  his  ankle.  He  was 
bitten  !  All  was  over  ! 

Stooping  slowly,  with  a  wild  terror  shuddering  through  his 
veins,  he  looked  at  the  wounded  limb.  But  no,  there  was  no 
bite.  The  snake  had  missed  him.  In  his  backward  leap,  he 
had  struck  his  leg  against  the  upturned  spike  of  a  broken 
branch  which  lay  behind  him.  The  revulsion  in  his  spirit  at 
this  discovery  was  so  great  that  he  broke  into  a  quaver  of 
hysterical  laughter,  which  echoed  dismally  through  the  swamp, 
and  woke  such  an  answering  chorus  of  demoniacal  hooting 
and  screeching  in  the  adjacent  boughs,  that  he  was  affrighted, 
and  turning  away  from  the  open  space,  he  was  about  to  rush 
into  the  forest  on  his  flank,  when  he  saw  with  a  leap  of  heart, 
two  round  glistening  balls  in  the  dark  foliage  of  a  tree  a  few 
yards  before  him,  and  something  long  and  dark  crouching 
along  the  bough.  It  was  a  panther  I  He  wheeled  at  once 
with  a  bound,  and  fled  headlong  into  the  red  morass. 

Recovering  presently  from  his  shock  of  alarm,  he  trudged 
along  through  the  inky  water,  quivering  at  eveiy  step  lest  he 
should  feel  the  sting  of  the  moccasin,  or  the  crunching  gripe 
of  the  alligator.  It  was  a  long  journey  across  the  open  fen. 
The  red  light  had  faded  from  sky  and  water,  and  the  full 
moon,  which  had  lain  like  a  pallid  shell  in  the  heavens  when 


40  PROLOGUE. 

he  left  the  forest  behind  him,  had  deepened  into  a  lustrous 
orb  of  silver,  and  glistened  on  the  gray  water,  as  he  approached 
the  solid  sable  gloom  of  the  thick-wooded  wilderness. 

An  awful  fancy  had  haunted  his  mind  during  his  jour 
ney  across  the  open  fen— quiet,  but  very  awful.  A  strange 
man,  with  a  single  dog,  had  followed  him,  at  a  considerable 
distance  the  whole  way.  A  strange  man,  silent,  with  a 
silent  dog,  and  plodding  just  at  that  distance,  without 
coming,  or  trying  to  come,  any  nearer  him.  He  knew  that 
this  was  so,  though  he  did  not  dare  to  turn  his  head  to  see  if 
it  was  so.  He  knew  too  just  how  the  man  looked — a  dark 
figure  with  a  dark  slouched  hat,  and  the  dog,  also  dark,  by  his 
side,  just  a  little  behind  him.  Oh,  God  ! 

The  fancy  fell  from  him  as  he  came  under  the  black  trees 
again.  Staggering  on  through  thick  darkness,  broken  only  here 
and  there  by  an  uncertain  glimmer  or  a  pale  ray  of  moon 
light,  or  the  blue  flicker  of  a  dancing  and  vanishing  fen-light, 
he  found  the  water  still  ankle  or  knee  deep,  and  the  walking 
difficult  and  dangerous,  with  logs  and  fallen  trees  and  stumps 
and  masses  of  bushes  and  briers,  and  with  the  deadly  tenants 
of  the  pools.  The  fen  seemed  alive  with  the  latter,  and  all 
about  him,  and  in  the  branches  overhead,  there  were  such 
plungings  and  crashings,  and  such  a  clamor  of  flutterings  and 
hootings  and  screechings,  that  his  blood  ran  cold.  He  held 
his  course,  however,  hoping  to  come  upon  some  dry  spot  in  the 
great  swamp  where  he  could  stop  and  consider  what  to  do  to 
escape  from  this  dreadful  region.  Rest  he  must  have  soon,  for 
his  body  was  giving  way  with  hunger  and  fatigue.  He  was 
drenched  from  head  to  foot,  and  spite  of  the  exertion  of  walk 
ing,  he  shivered  with  cold.  His  vitals  were  weak  and  aching 
for  want  of  food  ;  his  head  was  light  with  sleeplessness  ;  and 
insane  fancies  ran  riot  in  his  terror-goaded  and.  horror-laden 
mind.  One  was  that  his  legs,  which  felt  numb  and  seemed 
heavier  every  time  he  lifted  them,  were  slowly  changing  to 
iron,  and  that  he  would  soon  be  unable  to  raise  them  for  their 
weight,  and  would  be  obliged  to  stand  there  in  the  quagmire. 
Then  in  the  glimmering  darkness  the  moccasins  would  rise 
from  the  pools  and  surround  him  in  a  circle.  They  would 


PEOLOGTJE.  41 

gather  in  from  all  the  swamp  around,  and  pile  on  top  of  each 
other,  till  they  made  a  high,  high  writhing  wall  about  him  of 
devilish  serpent  faces,  swaying  and  bristling,  and  abo^e  them  in 
the  branches  all  the  panthers  would  gather,  savagely  grinning 
at  him,  and  every  one  would  have  the  visage  of  Lafitte.  Then 
all  at  once  the  writhing  wall  of  snakes  would  sway  forward,  and 
strike  him  with  a  million  fangs,  and  rebound  and  strike  again 
with  a  regular  and  even  motion,  while  his  body  would  slowly 
swell,  and  his  shrieks  would  ring  in  the  darkness,  and  the  pan 
thers  would  look  on  with  the  face  of  his  master,  and  laugh 
softly  with  the  smooth  voice  of  his  master.  And  the  writh 
ing  wall  would  dilate  and  expand  till  every  snake  was  vaster 
than  an  anaconda,  and  the  mass  together  would  fall  away  at 
every  rebound  to  a  horrible  distance,  and  reach  up  to  the  sky, 
and  his  body  would  swell  at  every  million-fanged  stroke  till  its 
monstrous  bloat  filled  the  dark  world,  and  his  shrieks  would 
rise  and  resound  through  space,  and  the  panthers  and  the 
tigers  would  dilate  with  the  rest,  and  look  on  with  enormous 
faces  like  his  master's,  and  their  smooth  laughter  would  grow 
louder  and  louder  into  smooth  thunders  of  laughter,  and  the 
bristling  and  the  striking  and  the  swelling  and  the  shrieking 
and  the  roaring  mirth,  would  go  on  increasing  forever  and  for 
ever. 

"  Lord  God  Almighty  help  me  !  I'm  going  crazy  1" 
The  words  burst  from  him  suddenly,  as  he  felt  the  horrible 
fancy  rush  upon  him  with  dreadful  reality,  and  almost  master 
him.  All  aghast  with  a  new  terror  at  the  foreign  and  incon 
gruous  effect  of  his  own  tones  in  that  haunted  darkness,  and 
amidst  the  unhuman  voices  around  him,  he  was  utterly  appalled 
and  confounded  the  next  instant  at  the  frightful  clamor  which 
rose  with  a  simultaneous  outburst,  volleying  tumultuously 
around  him  on  every  side  like  the  multitudinous  rush  and 
uproar  of  devils  when  the  silence  of  the  magic  circle  has  been 
broken  and  the  enchanter  is  to  be  torn  to  pieces.  Whooping, 
hooting,  screaming,  wailing,  yelling,  whirring,  flapping,  cack 
ling,  howling,  bellowing  and  roaring — all  rose  Jiogether  in  a  long 
continued  and  reverberating  whirl  and  brawl,  filling  the  dark 
ness  with  a  deafening  din.  Staggering  madly  forward,  the 


4:2  PROLOGUE. 

terrified  fugitive  broke  into  a  blind  and  frantic  run,  feeling  as 
in  a  horrible  dream,  that  £he  pools  had  changed  to  ground  which 
was  sloping  rapidly  up  to  strike  him  in  the  face  and  stop  him; 
till  at  last  with  a  sudden  lightening  of  the  darkness,  something 
caught  his  feet  and  threw  him  headlong,  and  with  an  awful 
sense  that  he  was  seized,  and  with  the  hideous  tiiitamar  swirl 
ing  downward  like  the  gurgling  roar  of  water  in  the  ears 
of  a  drowning  man,  he  swooned  away 


IY. 

Slowly  that  sluggish  sea  of  swoon  gave  up  its  dead,  and  life 
revived.  How  long  he  had  lain  in  that  blank  trance,  he  knew 
not.  He  felt  that  he  was  lying  on  bare,  damp  ground,  and 
that  the  moonlight  was  around  him.  The  din  had  sunk  into 
confused  and  broken  noises,  sounding  and  echoing  distantly 
through  the  darker  depths  of  the  moonlit  forest,  and  the  air 
around  him  was  desolate  and  still.  A  clear,  cold,  remote  still 
ness  filled  his  mind.  Gradually  a  dim  sense  of  the  former  ter 
ror,  mixed  with  consciousness  of  all  he  had  passed  through,  and 
of  the  place  he  was  in,  began  to  invade  the  silent  vacancy, 
and  crept  upon  him  as  from  afar.  Shuddering  slightly,  with 
icy  thrills  crawling  through  his  torpid  blood,  he  slowly  raised 
himself  to  his  knees,  and  looked  around  him.  With  a  vague 
relief,  which  was  almost  pleasure,  he  saw  that  he  was  kneeling 
on  dry  ground — a  low  acclivity  sloping  from  the  morass,  clothed 
with  giant  trees,  and  barred  with  large  spaces  of  grey  moon 
light  and  sable  shadow.  Behind  him  was  the  tough  cordage 
of  a  ground-vine,  in  which  his  foot  was  still  entangled.  Diseiir 
gaging  the  limb  without  rising  from  his  knees,  he  continued  to 
gaze,  gradually  yielding  to  an  overwhelming  sense  of  awe,  as 
he  took  in  more  fully  the  dark  and  dreadful  magnificence  of  the 
forest  which  loomed  before  him,  like  the  interior  of  some  infer 
nal  cathedral.  Far  away,  through  immense  irregular  vistas, 
diminishing  in  interminable  perspective,  the  ground  stretched 
in  vast  mosaics  of  sable  and  silver,  bunched  and  ridged  with 
low  flowers  and  herbage  and  running  vines,  all  moveless  and 


PROLOGUE.  43 

colorless  in  the  rich  pallor  of  the  moonlight,  and  in  the  solemn  sha 
dow,  as  though  wrought  in  stone.  Upborne  on  the  enormous  clus 
tered  columns  of  the  trees,  every  trunk  rising  sheer  like  a  massive 
shaft  of  rough  ebony,  darkly  shining,  and  fretted  and  starred 
with  the  gleaming  leaves  and  flowers  of  parasitical  vines — 
masses  of  gloomy  frondage,  touched  here  and  there  with  sullen 
glory,  spread  aloft  and  interwove  like  the  groined  concave  of 
some  tremendous  gothic  roof,  while  from  the  leaf-embossed  and 
splendor-dappled  arches,  the  long  mosses  drooped  heavily,  like 
black  innumerable  banners,  above  the  giant  aisles.  The  air  was 
dank  and  chill,  and  laden  with  thick  and  stagnant  odors  from 
the  night-blowing  flowers.  Fire-flies  flitted  and  glimmered 
with  crimson  and  emerald  flames  ;  fen-lights  flickered  and  qui 
vered  bluely  down  the  arcades  in  the  morass  ;  and  all  around 
from  the  bordering  quagmire,  and  from  the  crypts  and  vaults 
of  the  shadows,  the  demon-voices  of  the  region,  sounding  from 
above  and  below,  and  rapidly  swelling  into  full  choir,  chanted 
in  discordant  chorus.  Listening  to  their  subterranean  and 
aerial  stridor,  which  rose  in  wild  accordance  with  the  ghastly 
pomp,  the  horrible  and  sombre  grandeur  of  the  scene,  a  dark 
imagination  might  have  dreamed  that  some  hellish  mass  in  cele 
bration  of  the  monstrous  crime  against  mankind  which  centered 
in  this  region,  was  pealing  through  the  vaulted  aisles  and 
arches  of  a  church  whose  bishop  was  the  enemy  of  human 
souls.  Here,  to  this  dread  cathedral,  might  gather  in  his  wide 
and  wicked  diocese — the  millions  callous  to  the  woes  and  wrongs 
of  slaves — the  myriads  careless  of  all  ills  their  fellows  suffer, 
while  their  own  selfish  strivings  prosper,  and  wealth  and  sensual 
comforts  thrive  around  them.  Peopling  the  vast  and  drear 
nocturnal  solitudes,  under  the  moonlit  arches,  here  they  might 
come,  while  the  screaming,  hooting,  bellowing  chant  resounded, 
and  kneel,  a  motley  and  innumerable  concourse  of  base 
powers,  in  fell  communion.  Statesmen  who  hold  the  great 
object  of  government  to  be  the  protection  of  property  in  man, 
and  wield  the  mighty  engine  of  the  state  for  the  oppression  of 
the  weak  ;  placemen  who  suck  on  office,  deal  and  blind  to  the 
interests  of  the  poor  ;  scurvy  politicians,  intent  on  pelf  and 
power,  who  plot  and  scheme  for  tyranny,  and  legislate  away 


44  PBOLOGUE. 

the  inalienable  rights  of  men  ;  Jesuit  jurists,  mocking  at  natu 
ral  law,  who  decree  that  black  men  have  no  rights  that  white 
men  are  bound  to  respect  ;  scholars,  bastard  to  the  blood  of 
the  learned  and  the  brave,  who  prate  with  learned  ignorance 
of  manifest  destiny  and  inferior  races,  to  justify  against  all 
human  instincts  the  cruel  practice  of  the  oppressor ;  hide-bound 
priests,  who  would  turn  the  -hunted  fugitive  from  their  doors, 
or  consent  that  their  brothers  should  go  into  slavery  to  save 
the  Union  ;  traders  and  slavers,  an  innumerable  throng,  mad- 
ravening  with  never-sated  avarice,  and  furious  against  liberty 
and  justice  as  lesseners  of  their  gains  ;  these,  and  their  rabble- 
ment  of  catch-poles,  and  jail-birds,  and  kidnappers,  and  men- 
hunters,  and  slave-law  commissioners — here  they  might  assem 
ble  to  pray  that  their  conspiracy  against  mankind  might 
prosper,  and  love  and  reverence  for  the  soul  die  dqwn  in  dark 
ness,  and  man  degrade  into  the  brute  and  fiend.  Fit  place  and 
time,  and  fit  surroundings  for  such  rites  as  these  ;  fitter  far 
than  for  the  trembling  murmurs  of  a  solitary  slave,  kneeling 
in  the  dreary  moonlight,  and  pouring  out  the  forlorn  agony  of 
his  spirit  in  prayer  to  the  God  of  the  poor. 

Some  dim  association  of  the  aspect  of  the  forest  with  the 
cathedrals  he  had  seen  many  years  before  when  he  was  a  slave 
in  New  Orleans  ;  some  dim  sense  that  he  was  on  his  knees  in 
the  attitude  of  supplication,  had  mixed  with  the  overwhelming 
consciousness  of  his  helplessness,  his  wretchedness,  and  his 
danger,  and  impelled  him  to  pray.  Fervently,  in  uncouth 
words  and  broken  tones,  he  poured  forth  the  mournful  and 
despairing  litany  of  a  soul  haunted  with  horror,  encompassed 
with  perils,  and  yearning  for  deliverance.  The  demoniac 
clamor  of  the  forest  rose  louder  and  louder  as  he  went  on, 
breaking  his  communion  with  God,  till  at  length,  appalled  by 
the  unhallowed  din,  he  ceased,  and  rising  to  his  feet,  uncom- 
forted  and  terrified,  staggered  weakly  on  his  way. 

He  was  very  feeble  now,  and  his  strength  was  so  nearly 
gone  that  he  tottered.  His  setting  forward  again  was  a  mere 
mechanical  action,  but  it  continued  for  some  minutes  before 
the  dull  thought  came  to  him  that  his  movement  was  useless. 
In  his  agonizing  desire  for  sleep,  he  tried  to  climb  a  tree,  where, 


PROLOGUE.  45 

lodged  in  a  fork  of  the  branches,  he  thought  he  would  be  safer 
and  more  comfortable  than  on  the  ground  ;  but  even  with  the 
advantage  of  the  parasitical  vine  which  covered  its  trunk,  his 
strength  was  not  equal  to  the  effort..  He  was  in  the  last  stages 
of  exhaustion. 

Sitting  upon  the  ground,  he  resolved  to  keep  awake  till 
morning,  when  there  would  be  less  danger  of  wild  beasts,  and 
lie  might  dare  to  repose.  He  sat  for  a  long  time  shuddering 
with  cold,  and  watching  intently  all  about  him,  lest  some 
panther  should  spring  upon  him  unawares.  Once  or  twice, 
witn  a  start  of  terror,  he  caught  himself  nodding  ;  and  at 
length,  affrighted  at  the  possible  consequences  of  his  dropping 
off  into  slumber,  he  strove  to  occupy  his  mind  by  observing 
minutely  the  various  details  of  the  scene  before  him.  He  had 
been  busy  at  this  for  some  time,  when  he  became  suddenly  and 
quietly  perplexed  with  the  feeling  that  there  was  something  he 
ought  to  take  notice  of,  but  was  unable  to  remember  or  define 
what  it  was.  All  the  while  he  was  vacantly  gazing  at  the 
bole  of  a  gigantic  cypress  rising  from  a  dense  clump  of  dwarf 
palmettoes,  slightly  silvered  by  a  faint  ray  of  moonlight,  and 
from  time  to  time  he  saw,  without  receiving  any  impression 
therefrom,  a  dim  vapor  glide  athwart  the  palmetto  leaves. 
Suddenly  but  quietly  it  came  to  him  that  what  he  ought  to 
have  noticed  was  a  peculiar  odor,  and  startled  a  little,  he 
strove  to  shake  the  torpor  from  his  mind,  arid  think.  What 
could  it  be  ?  As  suddenly  and  quietly  as  before  it  came  to  him, 
and  at  the  same  moment  his  eye  took  in  the  meaning  of  that 
curious  mist  gliding  over  the  palmettoes.  It  was  the  smell  of 
smoke,  and  yonder  was  its  source.  Thoroughly  roused  now, 
and  vaguely  alarmed,  he  scrambled  up  on  his  feet,  with  a  little 
strength  returning  to  his  body,  and  gazed  in  stupefaction  at 
the  misty  ringlets  lazily  stealing  across  the  leaves.  It  certainly 
was  smoke  ;  he  smelled  now  very  distinctly  the  dry  scent  of 
burning  wood.  Who  could  have  a  fire  in  the  heart  of  the 
swamp  at  this  time  of  night  ?  At  first,  superstitious  fancies 
rose  in  his  mind,  for  the  thought  that  any  per§ou  could  be  here 
with  him  was  inconceivable.  But  gradually  recovering  self- 
possession,  he  resolved,  for  he  was  naturally  courageous,  to  ga 


46  PROLOGUE. 

forward  and  solve  the  mystery  ;  and  taking  the  knife  from  the 
back  of  his  neck,  he  cautiously  approached  the  palrnettoes,  his 
blood  thrilling,  and  his  heart  beating,  and  all  the  forest  reso 
nant  around  him.  Peering  through  the  leaves,  he  saw  with 
amazement  a  pile  of  smouldering  embers  duskily  glimmering  in 
front  of  a  large  hole  in  the  trunk.  The  tree  was  hollow.  A 
sort  of  fright  fell  upon  him,  -and  he  retreated  ;  but  recovering 
instantly,  he  again  advanced,  and  nerved  to  desperation,  spoke 
in  a  voice  faint  both  from  weakness  and  trepidation  : 

"  Ho,  there  !  Ho,  you  in  there  !  You  there,  whoever  you 
are  1" 

There  was  no  answer,  nor  movement,  but  at  the  sound  of 
his  voice,  a  tremendous  uproar  burst  forth  again  in  the  forest. 
Desperate  at  this,  he  again  spoke  in  a  louder  tone  : 

"  Ho,  now,  you  in  there  1  You  just  say  who  you  are.  I'm 
coming  in  now  !" 

No  answer,  but  the  uproar  in  the  branches  and  from  the 
swamp  increased  like  a  tempest.  Strung  up  now  to  his  highest 
pitch,  Antony  clutched  his  knife,  and  setting  his  teeth  hard, 
plunged  in  through  the  hole. 

It  was  densely  dark  within.  The  immense  cypress  was  com 
pletely  hollow,  as  he  could  feel,  for  stretching  out  his  arms  he 
encountered  nothing.  He  began  to  grope  about,  but  stopped 
suddenly,  thinking  it  better  to  get  a  light.  Quite  overcome 
by  the  strangeness  of  his  discovery,  and  by  the  novel  circum 
stance  of  a  fire  being  found  smouldering  before  an  empty  tree, 
he  stooped  down  through  the  low  entrance  to  the  brands,  and 
blowing  upon  one  till  it  flamed,  withdrew  himself  again  into 
the  tree,  and  looked  around.  Suddenly,  with  a  hoarse  gasp 
of  horror,  he  tottered  back,  falling  from  his  squatting  posture 
over  upon  the  ground,  and  dropping  the  brand,  which  at  once 
went  out,  leaving  him  in  utter  darkness.  In  that  instant  he 
had  caught  a  glimpse,  by  the  fitful  flame,  of  a  lank  figure, 
duskily  clothed,  lying  on  its  back,  with  a  mop  of  thick  white 
hair,  a  leathern  face  hideously  grinning,  and  glassy  eyes  which 
had  met  his;  and  he  felt  like  one  who  had  entered  the  lair  of  a 
iiend. 

So  paralyzed  was  he  with  affright,  that  instead  of  scrambling 


PKOLOGTJE.  4 

out  of  the  tree,  he  sat  motionless,  leaning  back  on  his  hands, 
with  his  blood  curdling,  and  cold  thrills  crawling  under  his 
hair.  A  wild  fancy  that  he  would  be  instantly  sprung  upon 
by  this  thing,  held  him  still  and  breathless.  But  all  remained 
silent  and  moveless,  and  at  last,  venturing  to  stir,  he  got  up 
on  one  knee,  and  pressed  his  hands  on  his  heart  to  stop  its 
mad  beating.  By  degrees  his  courage  came  back  to  him,  or, 
at  least,  his  dreadful  fear  became  blended  with  desperation. 
Then  came  wild  wonder  at  the  horrible  strangeness  of  that 
figure,  and  slowly  this  melted  into  a  savage  and  frenzied  curi 
osity.  Seizing  the  smoking  brand  from  the  earth,  he  backed 
out  through  the  hole  (for  he  absolutely  did  not  dare  to  turn 
his  back  to  the  dread  tenant  of  the  cavern),  and,  once  outside, 
blew  upon  the  stick  till  it  reflamed.  Waiting  a  moment  till 
the  light  burned  strongly,  he  thrust  it  through  the  hole,  and 
holding  it  above  his  head,  glared  with  starting  eyes  upon  the 
face  of  the  figure. 

He  saw  in  a  moment  that  it  was  nothing  unearthly — only 
the  form  of  an  aged  woman,  and  of  his  own  race.  Instantly 
it  struck  him  that  she  was  a  fugitive,  probably  a  dweller  in  the 
swamp.  Reentering  the  tree,  he  approached  and  held  the 
blazing  brand  over  her  countenance.  With  a  terrible  sensa 
tion  of  awe  he  saw  that  it  was  the  countenance  of  the  dead. 
She  lay  on  a  couch  of  the  forest  moss,  her  gaunt  figure 
decently  composed,  with  the  hands  crossed,  as  if  she  had 
known  that  she  was  dying.  She  was  apparently  very  old ;  the 
woolly  hair  was  white  ;  the  black  face  was  deeply  wrinkled, 
and  much  emaciated  ;  the  mouth  was  open,  and  had  fallen 
back,  showing  the  white  teeth,  which  were  perfectly  sound  as 
in  her  youth  ;  and  the  glassy  eyes  were  unclosed  and  fixed 
aslant  with  that  look  which  had  so  terrified  the  fugitive.  He 
felt  no  terror  now,  however,  only  awe  ;  for  with  the  discovery 
of  the  truth,  the  hideousness  of  the  face  was  gone.  Bending 
down,  he  touched  the  cheek.  It  was  still  tepid — almost 
warm  ;  the  life  had  not  been  long  extinct,  a  fact  of  which  the 
smouldering  brands  of  the  fire  she  had  kindled  was  another 
evidence.  Poring  upon  the  features,  a  confased  feeling 
gathered  in  his  mind  that  he  had  seen  them  before,  and  he 


48  PROLOGUE. 

strove  to  resolve  it  into  certainty.  Suddenly,  as  the  flickering 
of  the  burning  brand  he  held  brought  out  a  new  expression  on 
the  dark,  withered  lineaments,  it  flashed  upon  him  that  this 
was  old  Nancy.  She  had  been  a  slave  on  Mellott's  planta 
tion,  near  Lafitte's,  and  had  disappeared  five  or  six  years 
before,  after  a  terrible  whipping.  They  had  hunted  the 
swamp  for  her  without  avail,  and  it  was  supposed  that  she 
had  perished.  Here  she  had  lived,  however,  and  here  she  was 
now,  all  her  earthly  troubles  over. 

Turning  away  from  the  body  in  wild  wonderment,  the  fugi 
tive  looked  around  him.  The  space  within  the  tree  must  have 
been  at  least  six  feet  in  diameter.  It  had  been  hollowed  out 
by  time  in  the  form  of  an  upright  cone,  the  apex  of  which  was 
at  least  a  dozen  feet  above  the  ground.  The  bole  had  proba 
bly  been  eaten  out  by  a  sort  of  dry  rot,  dr  perhaps  by  insects, 
for  the  wooden  walls  were  not  damp,  nor  was  the  corrugated 
floor.  The  only  furniture  was  the  couch  of  Spanish  moss  on 
which  the  body  lay,  a  block  of  wood  fashioned  for  a  seat  out 
of  the  butt  end  of  a  log,  and  a  long  paddle,  bladed  at  both 
ends,  which  leaned  upright  against  the  wall.  Looking 
around  further,  Antony  noticed  some  little  niches  cut  in  the 
walls,  with  the  handle  of  a  hatchet  sticking  out  of  one  of 
them.  On  the  blade  was  a  parcel  wrapped  in  cotton  cloth,  in 
which  he  found  three  or  four  corn-cob  pipes,  a  bundle  of  dried 
tobacco-leaf,  bunches  of  matches,  and  two  or  three  knick- 
knacks  of  no  great  use.  Evidently  Nancy  had  made  occasional 
excursions  from  her  hiding-place,  for  these  things  must  all 
have  been  borrowed  from  the  race  of  the  taskmasters.  This 
was  still  more  evident  as  Antony  pursued  his  observations.  In 
another  niche,  he  found  at  least  half  a  peck  of  corn  done  up  in 
a  cloth,  and  in  a  wooden  quart  measure  there  was  some  more, 
parched.  His  hunger  rose  so  suddenly  and  fiercely  at  sight 
of  the  food  that  he  at  once  crammed  a  handful  of  the  parched 
corn  into  his  mouth,  and  with  the  measure  in  his  hand,  con 
tinued  to  crunch,  although  his  throat  was  so  swollen  with  his 
long  fast  that  he  could  scarcely  swallow.  Continuing  his 
search  while  he  ate,  he  found  in  a  third  niche  an  oblong  tin 
pan  and  a  gourd,  but  in  the  pan,  to  his  astonishment  and 


PEOLOGUE.  49 

delight,  there  was  a  dead  opossum  and  a  small  fish.  They 
were  both  fresh — Nancy  must  have  captured  them  that  very 
day.  She  had  lived  a  woodman's  life  in  the  heart  of  the 
morass,  setting  her  fishtraps  on  the  bayou,  and  catching  the 
smaller  animals  in  the  forest.  Forgetting  to  pursue  his  search 
further  in  the  desire  to  appease  his  ravening  hunger,  Antony 
only  paused  to  lay  one  of  the  pieces  of  cotton  cloth  over  the 
face  of  the  dead,  and  then  set  to  work  to  rake  the  fire  into  a 
bed  of  coals,  and  hastily  dressing  the  meat  with  his  bowie- 
knife,  broiled  it,  and  ate  with  the  eager  voracity  of  a  man 
half  starved. 

A  mad  repast,  not  given  to  appetite,  but  famine,  and  void  of 
all  enjoyment.  Not  himself,  but  his  hunger  as  a  thing  apart  from 
himself,  was  fed  by  those  gross  gobbets.  Kneeling  before  the 
embers,  in  the  dusky  glimmer,  he  hurried  down  the  half-cooked 
food,  tasting  of  smoke  and  cinders,  as  to  some  wild  wolf  that 
gnawed  his  vitals  Tn  tbe  darkness  behind  him  lay  the  swart 
corpse,  and  the  thought  of  it  was  a  quiet  horror  in  his  mind. 
Blent  with  that  horror,  and  with  his  raging  famine,  was  a  dull, 
stupefied  sense,  of  the  chafe  of  the  collar  on  his  neck,  the 
swollen  pains  and  weakness  of  his  limbs,  the  steady  suck  of 
the  sleeplessness  in  his  jaded  brain,  the  tepid  clinging  of  his 
wet  clothes,  the  filthy  smell  of  the  muck  and  slime  that 
covered  him,  and  all  was  mixed  confusedly  with  a  dimmer 
apprehension  of  the  smoky  warmth  of  the  cavern,  the  sullen 
smoulder  of  the  embers,  and  the  resonance  of  the  vast  drear 
forest. 

His  meal  ended,  he  still  knelt  in  the  murk  contraction  of  all 
his  sensations  and  apprehensions,  before  the  dull  fire.  The 
fierce  gnawing  at  his  stomach  had  changed  to  an  uneasy  dis- 
tention,  as  if  something  huge  and  bloated  lay  dead  within  him. 
His  horror  of  the  corpse  had  grown  stronger  even  than  the 
heavy  weariness  and  frowsy  misery  of  body  and  spirit,  and  he 
now  begun  to  consider  what  he  should  do  with  it.  It  ought  to 
be  buried,  he  felt,  but  in  his  utter  torpor  of  fatigue,  he  shrunk 
from  the  labor  of  making  it  a  grave. 

Slowly  his  inertia  yielded,  and  he  set  to  work  with  the 
hatchet,  chopping  out  a  burial-place  in  an  oblong  space  near 

3 


50  PUOLOGUE. 

the  tree  between  the  palmettoes,  and  scooping  up  the  soft  soil 
with  his  hands.  It  was  a  long  and  painful  task  for  his  weak 
and  sore  body  ;  but  at  length  it  was  ended,  and  bringing  out 
the  corpse,  he  laid  it  in  the  cavity,  heaped  the  earth  over  it, 
and  left  it  to  its  rest. 

The  forest  was  still  resounding  with  the  unhuman  noises 
when  he  entered  the  cypress  hollow  again.  He  heard  them 
dully,  with  torpid  indifference.  The  tree  seemed  strangely 
empty  to  him  now.  He  sat  for  a  moment  on  the  block, 
watching,  with  an  utter  prostration  of  heart,  the  dusky  glim 
mer  faintly  lighting  the  smoky  gloom.  Rising  presently,  he 
arranged  the  embers  so  that  they  would  outlast  the  night  to 
keep  away  the  wild  beasts  ;  and  then  throwing  himself  upon 
the  heap  of  moss  where  the  corpse  had  lain,  he  sank  away  in  a 
dead  slumber.  Soon  the  hooting  and  napping,  the  screaming 
and  the  howling  sunk  away  also,  and  the  vast  forest  lay  still 
and  weird  and  desolate  in  the  pallor  of  the  moon. 


He  woke  with  the  feeling  that  he  had  dropped  off  and  slept 
a  minute,  but  at  the  same  instant  gazing  with  stiff  and  smart 
ing  eyes  through  the  brown  dusk  of  the  hollow,  he  was  con 
fused  at  seeing  the  palmetto  leaves  at  the  entrance  plainly 
visible,  and  of  a  deep,  cool  green.  He  knew  now  that  it  was 
broad  day,  and  that  he  had  slept  long.  Raising  himself  sud 
denly,  a  mass  of  cramping  stitches  wrenched  his  frame,  and 
made  him  gasp  with  pain.  He  remained  for  a  minute  support 
ing  himself  on  his  hands,  and  then  slowly  and  painfully  arose. 
Refreshed  in  mind  by  his  slumber,  he  was  even  worse  off  in 
body  than  when  he  had  lain  down.  His  limbs  were  stiff,  and 
every  joint  and  muscle  ached.  His  wrists  and  ankles  were 
much  swollen  where  the  ropes  of  the  bucking  'had  cut  them. 
He  felt  as  if  he  had  been  switched  all  over  with  nettles,  from 
the  stings  and  scratches  of  the  thorns  and  briers  through  which 
he  had  travelled.  His  face  pained  him  especially,  the  atoms 


PROLOGUE.  51 

of  glass  still  smarting  in  the  cuts,  and  all  its  wounds  and 
bruises  sore  and  burning.  Worse  than  all  to  his  sense  at 
that  moment  were  the  weight  and  chafe  of  the  accursed  collar. 
His  flesh  was  raw  with-  it.  It  hurt  him  so  much  that  almost 
the  first  thing  he  did  was  to  tie  one  of  the  pieces  of  cotton 
cloth  around  his  neck  for  the  edge  of  the  iron  to  rest  on. 
Relieved  somewhat  by  this,  he  began  to  limp  to  and  fro,  gasp 
ing  and  panting  at  every  step  with  pain. 

After  a  few  minutes  of  this  exercise,  he  felt  a  little  easier, 
and  stopped  walking  to  examine  the  paddle.  It  convinced  him 
that  Nancy  must  have  a  boat  somewhere,  and  the  pilfered  arti 
cles  he  had  found  in  the  hollow  confirmed  his  belief.  To  get 
away  from  the  swamp  was  his  fixed  purpose,  and  in  that 
laud  of  streams,  if  he  could  only  find  Nancy's  boat,  he  might 
avoid  the  loathsome  and  dangerous  journey  across  the  mo 
rass. 

Nancy's  boat,  he  thought,  must  be  a  periagua,  and  the 
question  was,  where  did  she  keep  it.  Crawling  out  of  the  tree 
to  commence  a  s'earch  for  it,  he  saw  it  right  at  the  base  of  the 
trunk  under  the  palmettoes.  But  Nancy's  periagua  was  a 
canoe  !  A  canoe  of  buffalo  hide  on  a  frame  of  slender  wattles. 
Had  she  purloined  it  from  the  Indians  in  the  Pine  Woods 
of  Avoyelles,  and  had  it  been  a  present  to  them  from  some 
visiting  tribe  from  Texas  or  the  Indian  Territory  ?  For  all  the 
boats  Antony  had  ever  seen  among  them  were  periaguas.  At 
all  events  here  it  was,  and  elated  with  its  discovery,  the  fugitive 
instantly  brought  forth  the  paddle,  the  hatchet,  the  bowie- 
knife,  the  corn,  the  tin  pan,  and  the  matches,  and  placed  them 
in  it.  Going  in  again  to  see  if  there  was  anything  else  that 
might  serve  him  in  his  flight,  he  saw  an  end  of  dyed  cotton 
cloth  hanging  out  from  the  couch  of  moss.  With  a  pull  out  it 
came — an  old  blue  cotton  gown.  Turning  over  the  moss,  he 
uncovered  an  old  blue  flannel  shirt,  an  old  pair  of  grey  trow- 
sers,  a  jean  jacket  torn  up  the  back,  a-  slipper  and  one  stock 
ing.  Rejoiced  that  Nancy's  purloinings  had  furnished  him 
with  a  change  of  clothes,  he  put  the  gown,  shirt  and  trowsers 
into  the  canoe,  and  lifting  the  latter,  plunged  out  through  the 
palmettoes  into  the  forest. 


52  PROLOGUE. 

A  thrill  of  alarm  shot  through  him  as  he  saw  by  the  sun 
light  that  it  was  late  in  the  afternoon.  So  accustomed  had 
he  been  in  the  enforced  habits  of  plantation  life  to  rise  at 
daybreak,  that  on  waking  in  the  hollow  he  naturally  thought 
he  had  awakened  at  the  usual  morning  hour.  He  shuddered 
now  with  the  consciousness  that  so  much  time  had  been  lost, 
when  the  dogs,  guided  by  some  professional  expert  at  man- 
hunting,  might  be  coming  straight  toward  him.  That  Lafitte 
would,  in  his  burning  lust  for  vengeance,  hunt  the  swamp  for 
weeks  to  find  him,  he  had  no  doubt,  and  he  must  at  once  speed 
away. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  debating  which  direction  to  take, 
when  looking  down  he  happened  to  see  a  spot  where  the  earth 
had  been  harrowed  by  the  claws  of  some  wild  beast,  and  upon 
the  scratches  was  the  distinct  imprint  of  a  naked  foot.  It 
came  to  him  at  once  that  this  was  a  footmark  Nancy  had 
made  going  up  from  the  water,  and  he  at  once  resolved  to  pur 
sue  a  track,  in  a  bee-line  from  the  heel  of  the  print.  Limp 
ing  along  painfully  with  the  canoe  on  his  shoulders  and  cau 
tiously,  for  by  the  sudden  slipping  and  rustling  in  the  grass 
and  herbage  he  knew  that  snakes  were  around  him,  suddenly 
his  heart  and  blood  jumped,  and  he  sprang  backward  with  a 
leap  that  shot  a  flood  of  wrenching  pangs  through  his  whole 
frame.  He  had  nearly  stepped  upon  a  rattlesnake  which  lay 
in  a  faint  glimmer  of  sunshine  on  a  strip  of  thinly  tufted  earth. 
The  sluggish  reptile  quivered  slightly  throughout  its  mottled 
length,  and  lifting  its  head  with  venom  in  its  sparkling  eyes 
and  devilish  yawning  jaws,  sounded  its  rattle  and  swiftly  slid 
from  view.  Antony  shuddered,  and  the-  old  dark  fancy  that 
he  was  in  Hell  flickered  through  his  mind.  Trembling  in  spite 
of  himself  at  every  buzzard  that  flew  from  his  path,  or  small 
animal  that  crossed  it,  and  feeling  that  everything  was  watch 
ing  him,  and  that  the  multitudinous  chatter  of  the  birds  that 
filled  the  forest  was  concerning  him,  he  went  on  his  way. 
Soon  he  came  to  the  pools,  and  beating  the  moccasins  from 
his  path,  arrived  at  a  shoal  of  black  mire,  and  a  narrow  bayou. 
A  fallen  tree  lay  with  its  branches  dipped  in  the  stream,  half 
way  across  ;  a  rotten  log  floated  in  the  water  ;  stumps  and 


PROLOGUE.  53 

snags  projected  here  and  there  ;  waifs  of  moss,  slivers  of 
branches,  broken  boughs,  leaves,  flowers,  and  bits  of  forest 
debris  floated  idly  on  the  shining  surface  or  among  the 
shadows. 

Hurriedly  casting  off  his  foul  rags,  the  fugitive  washed  him 
self  with  the  old  gown,  and  put  on  the  shirt  and  trowsers. 
Then  laying  the  canoe  on  the  water,  where  it  lightly  danced, 
he  cautiously  got  in,  grasped  the  paddle  in  the  middle,  and 
plying  the  blades  first  on  one  side  and  then  on  the  other,  shot 
slowly  off  with  a  beating  heart  up  the  dull  stream. 

Heading  northward,  the  brown  skiff  yawed  from  right  to 
left,  and  darted  with  an  uncertain  forward  motion,  trembling 
beneath  him  like  a  living  thing  that  shared  his  agitation. 
Black  banks  of  mud,  pierced  here  and  there  with  alligator 
holes,  swamp  grass,  and  pools,  and  luxuriant  clumps  and 
masses  of  strange  many-colored  flowering  verdure,  fallen  trees 
and  trees  leaning  to  their  fall,  and  trees  uptowering  in  leafy 
pride,  and  the  vine-enwreathed  and  flower-gemmed  wilderness 
of  massive  trunks  uplifting  their  vast  moss-bearded  and  leaf- 
laden  branches,  spread  and  loomed  in  solemn  and  splendid  con 
fusion  on  either  side  as  the  boat  lightly  darted  on  its  sinuous 
course.  Alligators  swam  through  the  bayou,  or  plunged  from 
floodwood,  or  raised  themselves  with  brutal  bellowings  on  the 
margin  as  it  glided  on.  Cranes  and  bitterns  fled  away  from 
the  banks  squawking  and  screaming  ;  strange  birds  of  gor 
geous  plumage  flew  rustling  through  the  branches  ;  scarlet- 
gilled  black  buzzards  rose  and  soared  with  broad  and  steady 
wing  ;  myriads  of  ducks  and  water-fowl  of  many  kinds  flapped 
and  swam  away  continually  before  it.  Paddled  steadily  for 
ward,  now  on  one  side,  now  on  the  other,  on  sped  the  brown 
canoe,  while  the  shadows  grew  inkier  on  the  sombre  water, 
and  again  under  the  red  reflection  of  the  sky,  the  dull  bayou 
became  a  stream  of  blood. 

Awed  by  the  solemn  desolation  of  the  scene,  the  gloomy 
color  of  the  water,  the  gathering  darkness  of  the  wooded  fen, 
the  motions  and  the  voices  all  around;  troubled  at  the  thought 
of  the  long  and  perilous  distance  that  stretched  between  him 
and  his  far  bourn  of  safety;  yet  with  a  fearful  joy  and  a  sustain- 


54:  PROLOGUE. 

ing  hope  within,  the  fugitive  oared  his  swift  darting  skiff  at 
length  into  the  river  he  had  swam  last  the  day  before.  The 
red  glow  had  died  from  sky  and  water,  and  the  moon  silvered 
greyly  the  stream  as  he  paddled  on  between  the  black  forest 
on  either  side.  Heading  his  prow  to  the  east,  and  plying  his 
paddle  vigorously,  he  flew  lightly  up  the  stream.  Voices  of 
bird  and  beast  called  and  answered  weirdly  in  the  darkness  of 
the  black  shores;  trees  towered  and  leaned  in  ambiguous  sable 
Bhapes  over  the  dusky  stream,  and  watched  him  as  he  shot 
swiftly  by;  the  solemn  sky  spread  far  above  him  like  a 
doubtful  thought,  half-boding,  yet  clearing  slowly  into  deep- 
withdrawn  tranquillity,  in  the  increasing  lustre  of  the  tawny 
moon.  Overarched  and  palisaded  by  the  phantom  sentience 
of  the  hour,  his  dark  skiif,  gliding  and  darting  with  light  tre 
mors  and  waverings  still  held  its  way  like  a  dumb  intelligence 
over  the  mysterious  water. 

Hours  went  on,  and  save  the  scattered  hooting  and 
screeching  of  owls  in  the  forest,  and  the  occasional  clacking 
of  some  vagrant  bat  whirling  by,  the  moonlit  night  was  s.till. 
Only  once  the  fugitive  oared  his  canoe  in  to  the  shore,  where 
on  a  low  projecting  bluff  under  a  great  "tree,  he  lit  a  small  fire, 
and  hastily  parching  some  corn  in  the  pan,  ate  a  hurried 
meal.  Then  slaking  the  fire,  he  entered  the  canoe  again,  and 
paddled  on. 

An  hour  or  two  later  he  turned  the  skiff  into  a  narrow 
bayou  which  debouched  into  the  stream,  thus  changing  his 
course  to  the  north.  His  object  was  to  gain  the  Red  River, 
where  he  hoped  to  smuggle  himself  on  board  some  steamboat, 
and  getting  to  New  Orleans,  escape  from  the  steamboat,  and 
hide  himself  in  the  hold  of  some  northern  vessel.  It  was  his 
former  plan,  and  he  still  clung  to  it  with  tenacity,  bitterly 
aware  of  its  hazards  and  dangers,  yet  unable  to  think  of  a 
better.  The  bayou  he  was  now  in  was  very  narrow,  hemmed 
in  on  either  side  by  the  forest  and  the  fen,  and  much  obstructed 
by  stumps,  snags,  fallen  trees  and  lodgments  of  logs.  To  steer 
his  course  through  these  in  the  uncertain  darkness,  for  the 
branches  almost  shut  out  the  moonlight,  was  difficult,  and 
several  times  he  was  obliged  to  clamber  on  the  fallen  timber, 


PROLOGUK.  55 

and  pull  the  canoe  over,  or  shove  aside  the  huddled  floodwood 
to  clear  a  passage.  But  his  efforts  brought  him  at  length  to 
a  sluggish  stream,  which  he  judged  to  be  the  Pacoudrie — the 
stream  he  had  swam  first  in  his  escape  the  day  before,  but  at 
a  point  several  miles  below  the  Lafitte  plantation.  He  was 
now  approaching  dangerous  ground,  and  his  heart  began  to 
beat  faster.  Turning  his  prow  eastward  again,  he  paddled 
down  the  stream,  looking  for  another  debouching  bayou.  He 
soon  came  upon  one,  into  which  he  turned,  heading  north,  and 
through  which  his  passage  was  as  dark  and  impeded  as  before. 
He  exerted  himself  to  the  utmost,  and  at  last,  heated  and 
panting,  he  saw  that  he  was  leaving  the  morass,  and  that  the 
moonlit  ground,  thinly  scattered  over  with  trees,  and  thickly 
covered  with  verdurous  underwood,  was  gradually  rising  on 
either  side  of  him.  The  bayou,  too,  grew  deeper  and  less 
impeded,  and  presently  he  saw  on  his  left,  beyond  a  cluster  of 
huge  trees,  the  grain  of  a  plantation,  and  further  up,  a  man 
sion  with  outbuildings.  Who  lived  there  he  did  not  know — 
he  only  knew  that  he  was  again  in  the  region  of  his  enemies. 
Light  thrills  shot  through  his  heated  blood,  and  the  canoe 
yawed  and  trembled  beneath  him,  as  if  conscious  of  danger. 
Paddling  forward,  he  saw  before  him  in  the  clear  moonlight, 
for  the  trees  on  either  side  were  thinly  scattered  now,  a  huge 
trunk  fallen  sheer  across  the  stream,  sloping  down  obliquely, 
with  its  crown  of  branches  dipping  in  the  water,  and  barring 
half  the  passage.  From  the  other  side,  crossing  the  first 
trunk,  a  leafless  tree,  withered  or  blasted,  had  also  fallen,  and 
lay,  dipped  in  the  water,  half  way  across,  with  its .  broken 
boughs  sticking  upward  like  jagged  spikes  or  horns.  Steering 
to  the  left  of  these,  with  the  intention  of  shooting  through  the 
space  under  the  large  trunk,  he  gave  three  or  four  vigorous 
strokes  of  the  paddle  on  either  side  of  the  skiff.  The  canoe 
darted  forward,  quivering  with  the  impetus  of  the  strokes — 
stopped  suddenly  with  a  tearing  and  griding  shock,  and 
yawed  around,  with  the  water  welling  up  swiftly  through  its 
bottom.  Antony,  who  was  kneeling  on  one  knee,  had  just 
'time  to  spring  up,  catch  at  the  trunk  before  him,  and  lift  him 
self  up  on  it.  When  he  turned,  the  rim  of  the  canoe  was 


56  PROLOGUE. 

settling  in  the  water.  It  had  struck  one  of  the  jagged  spikes 
just  below  the  surface,  which  had  ripped  its  bottom,  and  it 
had  gone  down  forever. 

Sitting  on  the  tree,  stupefied  at  this  unexpected  accident, 
Antony  watched  the  circling  ripples  on  the  moonlit  water 
where  his  boat  had  sunk,  and  thought  with  bitter  regret  that 
he  was  now  without  a  single  weapon  to  fight  his  way  against 
any  opposing  white  man,  or  to  end  his  own  existence,  should 
the  odds  be  against  him.  His  hatchet  had  sank  with  the 
boat,  and  his  knife  also.  With  a  fierce  imprecation,  he  rose, 
ran  up  the  trunk,  sprang  ashore,  and  pausing  only  to  wrench 
off  a  branch,  and  strip  it  of  its  leaves  for  a  club  to  defend  him 
self,  rushed  on  through  the  underwood. 

Heading  to  the  northeast,  he  gained  the  plantation,  and 
running  over  rows  of  corn  and  springing  cotton-plant,  pale  in 
the  paling  moon,  he  struck  upon  a  fenced  road  lying  between 
the  plantation,  with  another  road  diverging  from  it  in  the 
course  he  was  travelling.  Into  the  latter  he  turned,  but  afraid 
to  take  the  open  path,  he  kept  within  the  fences  and  hedges 
skirting  its  side,  ready  if  he  saw  anybody  in  the  distance  to 
hide  in  the  rows,  or  if  anybody  came  upon  him,  to  fight  till  he 
was  killed. 

Rushing  on,  haggard  with  apprehension  and  desperate  reso 
lution,  with  his  teeth  set,  his  large  nostrils  dilated,  and  his 
glaring  eyes  roving  warily  about  him,  he  came  to  a  plantation 
divided  from  the  one  he  was  on  by  a  hedge  of  the  osage-orange, 
and  with  a  similar  hedge  skirting  the  road.  To  break  through 
this  would  be  difficult,  so  he  took  the  road  and  ran  on,  with 
the  fresh  wind  of  the  coming  morning  blowing  upon  him,  and 
increasing  his  fear  with  the  thought  of  the  new  dangers  the 
daybreak  would  bring.  It  was  a  large  plantation,  and  it  took 
him  some  tune  to  arrive  at  its  terminus,  at  which  a  road 
diverged  from  the  one  on  which  he  was  journeying.  He 
reached  this  road,  and  there,  clad  in  shabby  light  clothes,  and 
coming  down  the  path,  not  three  yards  distant  from  him,  was  a 
man  ! 

Antony  swung  up  his  club,  and  stood  with  opened  nostrils 
and  glaring  eyes,  his  black  face  alive  with  fierce  courage.  The 


PROLOGUE. 


•nr 


man  halted,  and  looked  at  him  with  a  sullen  scowl.  In  the 
blank  pause  all  life  seemed  to  have  died  from  the  air,  and  the 
m.oon  lay  faded  in  a  vacant  sky,  ghast  and  grey  iti  the  pale 
light  of  the  morning.  The  man  was  a  large,  gaunt  fellow, 
with  a  harsh  and  sallow  taciturn  face,  but  to"  the  dark,  half 
demented  fancy  of  the  fugitive,  he  dimly  seemed  a  devil,  and 
the  place  was  still  vaguely  Hell. 

"  See  here,  nigger,"  he  said,  in  a  stern,  strident  voice,  "yer 
a  runaway.  There's  their  name  as  owns  yer  on  yer  collar,  and 
I  know  Lafitte  Brothers,  New  Orleans,  want  yer.  I'm  goin' 
down  in  the  first  boat,  and  yer  cornin'  with  me,  right  away, 
and  no  fuss.  What  yo'  say,  nigger  ?" 

He  drew  a  revolver  from  his  breast,  and  held  it  idly,  watch 
ing  the  fugitive  with  a  scowl.  Sense  flickered  through  the 
mind  of  Antony.  Here  was  a  chance  to  get  safely  down  the 
river — beyond,  a  chance  to  give  his  captor  the  slip  when  he 
reached  the  city.  He  flung  his  club  away. 

"  I'll  go  with  ye,  Marster,"  he  said,  sullenly. 

The  man  put  up  his  pistol. 

"  What's  yer  name,  boy  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Bill,  Marster." 

"  Bill,  eh  ?  You're  the  Fugitive  Slave  Bill,  I  suppose,"  said 
the  man,  with  a  dull  grin. 

"  Yes,  Marster." 

"Well,  Bill,  I  collect  bills  for  a  livin',  and  I  reckon  !'ve 
collected  you,  Bill.  Hope  I'll  collect  something  on  yer,  too. 
Come  along." 

Antony  followed  him.  Not  a  word  further  was  said  on 
either  side.  Meanwhile,  around  them  the  pallor  of  the  sky 
lightened  into  daybreak;  horns  sounded  over  the  plantations; 
the  black  gangs  were  coming  forth  into  the  fields  on  every 
side;  the  birds  darted  and  sang;  the  fragrant  wind  blew  freshly 
from  the  east,  and  the  life  of  day  began  anew. 

Weary,  and  sore,  and  aching,  with  insane  fancies  flitting 
through  the  horrible  lethargy  which  was  creeping  on  his  mind, 
Antony  followed  his  taciturn  captor,  and  just  as  the  rising 
sun  shot  a  low,  broad  splendor  over  the  landscape,  they  came 

3* 


58  PROLOGUE. 

to  a  solitary  landing-place,  with  a  shanty  and  a  wood-pile,  on 
the  border  of  the  wide,  gleaming  river. 

It  was  all  a  dim,  dread  dream.  In  it  came  a  huge  monster, 
puffing,  and  snorting,  and  clanking,  vomiting  clouds  of  black 
smoke,  and  lifting  and  washing  back  the  drifting  trees  and 
logs  and  refuse  on  the  shining  surge.  Then  a  dream  of  hurry 
and  tumult,  a  great  heaving  mass,  a  swarm  of  people,  an  air 
blind  with  light  and  heavy  with  smoke,  a  roar  of  voices  laugh 
ing,  and  talking,  and  hallooing,  the  clanging  of  a  bell,  piles  of 
cotton  and  goods  of  all  sorts,  the  clank  of  engines,  the  wal 
lowing  of  water,  ponderous  snorting,  and  heaving,  and  surg 
ing,  all  mixed  together  in  inextricable  confusion,  and  he 
who  dreamed  it  vaguely  knew  that  he  was  sitting,  like  one 
drugged,  on  a  heaving  deck,  with  heaps  of  merchandise  around 
him.  Gradually  he  sank  away  into  a  still  heavier  lethargy,  in 
which  everything  became  even  more  dim  and  distant,  and 
from  thence  he  slid  into  a  blank  and  stupid  sleep. 

Once  again  the  dream  seemed  to  swim  heavily  into  that 
death-like  slumber — a  vague,  spectral  dream,  in  which  some 
one  gave  him  a  hunch  of  corn  bread,  which  he  ate  slowly  in  a 
glimmering  light,  remotely  conscious  of  a  dark  figure  standing 
near,  of  distant  voices,  a  far-off  snorting  and  clanking,  a  shud 
dering  motion  beneath  him,  and  formless  bulks  around  him. 
Presently  it  drowsily  dissolved  into  darkness  and  silence. 

Like  one  who  dreams  of  awaking,  he  awoke  again,  and 
stupidly  strove  to  remember  where  he  was  and  what  had  be 
fallen  him.  In  the  dull  gleam  of  a  hanging  lantern,  he  saw 
masses  of  bales  and  boxes,  casks  and  furniture,  and  miscel 
laneous  merchandise,  lying  in  murky  gloom.  A  few  dark, 
uncouth  forms  of  sleeping  men,  heavily  breathing,  were  strown 
about  in  various  grotesque  attitudes  on  the  piles  of  cotton. 
In  the  stillness,  he  heard  the  regular  snort  and  clank  of  the 
engine,  the  rushing  of  the  water,  and  felt  with  a  dull  giddi 
ness  the  floor  rocking  and  swaying  in  long,  regular  undula 
tions. 

Somehow,  a  minute  afterward,  he  found  himself  out  on  the 
edge  of  .the  deck,  sick  and  dizzy,  steadying  himself  against  a 
heap  of  bales,  and  looking  out  on  a  broad,  dim  river,  rolling 


PROLOGUE.  59 

in  mighty,  languid  surges  under  a  large,  low,  yellow  moon. 
Logs  and  trees  and  masses  of  chaff  and  refuse  lifted  blackly  in 
the  tawny  light  on  the  long  swells.  All  around  the  water 
fled  by,  churned  into  a  mill-race  of  seething  froth  and  foam. 
Beyond  was  a  huge  steamboat ;  black  smoke  trailing  from  its 
double  funnels  ;  fire  flaring  from  them  and  from  its  escape- 
pipes  ;  balls  of  light  gleaming  from  hanging  lanterns  here  and 
there  ;  light  streaming  out  from  the  rows  of  oblong  windows, 
and  from  every  hole  and  cranny  ;  the  strong  current  beaten  up 
into  a  flood  of  foam  beneath  its  wheel ;  and  the  darks  and 
lights  of  an  inverted  phantom  steamboat  hung  below  it  in  the 
water.  Far  away  were  low,  black  shores,  with  here  and  there 
a  gaunt  spectral  tree,  and  dull  lights  glimmering.  He  was  on 
the  mighty  tide  of  a  river  which  ran  through  Hell. 

Sick  and  dizzy,  and  with  a  horror  on  his  mind,  he  staggered 
back  with  the  heavy  drowse  on  all  his  faculties,  through  the 
tortuous  lane  of  cotton-bales,  and  sinking  down  on  one  of 
them,  fell  into  his  former  lethargy. 

He  did  not  sleep  through  the  night,  but  lay  in  utter  torpor, 
thinking  of  nothing,  fearing  and  hoping  nothing,  only  vaguely 
conscious  of  where  he  was,  and  of  the  forms  around  him. 
Overstrung  for  many  years  with  the  unnatural  toils  of  a  slave, 
and  still  more  tensely  overstrung  with  the  terrible  labors  of  his 
journey  through  the  morass — overstrung  both  in  body  and 
spirit,  as  few  but  slaves  ever  are — he  had  sunk  back,  now  that 
a  season  of  relaxation  had  come,  into  lassitude  as  excessive  as 
were  the  fatigues  and  agitations  of  which  it  was  the  reaction. 
Safe  for  the  present,,  with  no  immediate  stimulus  to  urge  him 
into  activity,  he  lay,  body  and  spirit,  as  in  the  sentient  sleep 
of  the  tomb. 

Toward  morning  he  sank  away  again  into  a  heavy,  dream 
less  slumber.  Once  during  the  day  he  dreamed  that  he  was 
aroused  by  some  one  whom  he  did  not  recognize,  and  bidden 
to  come  along  and  get  something  to  eat.  In  his  dream  he 
tried  to  shake  the  stupor  from  his  bleared  eyes,  which  even  the 
dim  light  among  the  bales  pained,  and  to  -obey.  But  the 
drowse  was  heavy  upon  him,  and  he  could  only  mumble  out 
that  he  didn't  want  to  eat,  and  the  dream  instantly  dissolved 


60  PROLOGUE. 

in  oblivion.  He  was  left  undisturbed,  for  his  captor  was 
not  without  pity  for  him,  and  saw  that  he  was  terribly 
fatigued. 

But  late  that  night,  when  midnight  was  two  hours  gone, 
and  the  moon  was  westering  palely  from  the  sky,  the  trump 
of  Liberty  or  Death  sounded  again  in  the  ear  of  the  fugitive, 
and  his  spirit  arose  from  its  tomb.  A  hand  shook  him,  a 
voice  shouted  in  his  ear  that  they  were  near  the  city,  and 
instantly  springing  to  his  feet,  with  fresh  blood  leaping  through 
his  veins,  with  new  pulses  throbbing  in  his  heart,  and  all  his 
faculties  awake  and  alive,  and  armed  with  their  utmost  cun 
ning,  their  fullest  courage,  and  their  most  desperate  resolution, 
he  followed  his  captor  out  on  deck.  The  boat  was  within  a 
mile  of  the  city,  which  lay  beyond  a  forest  of  masts  and 
hulls,  and  scattered  lights  hung  in  the  rigging,  or  glimmering 
on  the  levee,  dark  and  silent,  with  its  roofs  and  spires  massed 
against  the  purple  sky,  and  glittering  in  the  moon.  The  night 
was  hot  and  still,  and  a  heavy  languor  hung  over  the  great 
breadth  of  regular  rolling  swells.  Ships  lay  at  anchor  all 
about  the  stream,  lifting  with  the  lifting  of  the  surge,  and 
here  and  there  a  flat-boat  with  lights  on  board,  and  the  men 
plying  their  long  sweeps,  lazily  steered  its  way  on  the  drift 
between  the  hulls.  Antony  watched  the  scene,  with  his  heart 
fiercely  beating  at  the  thought  of  the  coming  trial. 

Meanwhile  the  boat,  with  her  bell  ringing,  was  slowly  clank 
ing  and  snorting  on  through  the  foaming  and  brattling  flood 
around  her  bows  and  wheels,  and  the  passengers  were  pouring 
forth,  men,  women  and  children,  on  her  decks.  The  fugitive 
stood  silently  by  his  captor,  on  the  lower  forward  deck,  amidst 
the  tumult  and  crowding  of  the  risen  multitude,  biding  his 
time.  The  moment  the  boat  touched  the  levee  he  was  deter 
mined  to  quietly  slip  aside  from  his  companion  and  lose  him 
self  in  the  crowd.  To  this  end  he  stood  a  little  to  one  side  of 
him,  watching  his  every  movement. 

Suddenly  the  clatter  of  conversation  and  the  trampling  of 
feet  were  stricken  still  by  a  wild  yell,  above  which  was  heard 
the  slow,  impassive  snort  and  clank  of  the  engine,  and  the 
brattling  wash  of  the  water.  Then  burst  forth  a  shrill  clamor 


PROLOGUE.  61 

of  cries  and  screams  from  the  after  deck,  followed  by  a  tramp 
ling  rush  which  threw  all  forward,  as  by  a  galvanic  shock,  into 
mad  confusion  ;  then  behind  the  pouring  crowd,  suddenly  light 
ened  a  red  dare,  followed  by  a  tremendous  volume  of  black  smoke, 
and  at  once,  amidst  terrific  disorder,  uprose  a  dreadful  storm  of 
yells  and  screams  from  the  horror-stricken  multitude.  The  next 
instant  the  uproar  of  voices  was  stifled  in  a  multitudinous 
choking  and  gasping,  as  the  thick,  poisonous  smoke  swept  over 
the  decks,  and  presently  up  shot  a  sheeting  burst  of  clear 
flame,  with  shrivelling  ringlets  of  black  vapor  writhing  and 
vanishing  away  in  it,  lighting  the  ghastly  pallor  of  the  hun 
dreds  of  terrified  faces,  all  turned  one  way,  and  throwing  its 
lurid  glare  on  the  churning  froth  and  the  lifting  swells,  and  on 
the  myriad  masts  and  spars  and  rigging  of  the  surrounding 
vessels,  which  started  out  suddenly  in  lines  arid  bars  of  tawny 
splendor  against  a  background  of  .gloom. 

Even  in  that  awful  moment  Antony  did  not  lose  sight  of 
his  captor.  With  his  whole  soul  fiercely  bent  on  getting  away 
from  him,  he  saw  him  start  back  and  shout  with  terror.  With 
his  eye  fixed  upon  him,  he  heard  the  rapid  jabber  of  a  terrified 
man  behind  him  shrieking  out  that  a  lantern  had  fallen  and  bro 
ken,  setting  fire  to  a  pool  of  turpentine  which  had  leaked  from  a 
barrel  on  the  after  deck,  and  the  fire  spreading  at  once  to  the  bar 
rel,  it  had  burst  and  flooded  the  boat  with  flame.  Still  watching 
him,  he  heard  the  screamed  order  to  reverse  the  engines,  and 
amidst  howls  and  cries  of  anguish  and  despair,  and  cursing 
and  praying,  and  the  heavy  thump  of  men  and  women  falling 
in  swoon  upon  the  deck,  or  trampling  and  fighting  over  each 
other  in  their  frantic  desperation,  while  the  advancing  flame 
leaped  and  writhed-,  crackling  and  bristling  and  roaring  furi 
ously  on — amidst  all  the  horror  and  Bedlam  confusion  of  that 
minute — for  it  was  but  one — standing  still,  with  his  eye 
riveted  on  his  captor,  he  heard  thepond  erous  clank,  the  long 
wash  and  wallow,  and  felt  the  boat  drift  backward  to  gain 
the  middle  of  the  stream.  That  instant  he  sprang  backward, 
and  rushing  through  the  crowd,  kicked  off  his  shoes,  and 
leaped  into  the  river. 

He  emerged  presently  from  his  plunge,  amidst  a  shower  of 


62  PEOLOGUE. 

fiery  cinders,  with  the  lifting  surges  all  aglare  around  him,  and 
struck  boldly  forward  for  the  levee,  seeing  at  a  glance  the  burn 
ing  mass  drift  behind  him,  and  all  the  illuminated  ships  at  the 
piers  and  in  the  stream  suddenly  alive  with  shouting  figures. 
Turning  for  an  instant,  arid  treading  water,  he  saw  the  boat 
clanking  backward,  with  her  black  funnels  rising  from  a  leap 
ing  and  coiling  mountain  of  smoke  and  flame,  her  passengers 
all  huddled  forward  in  a  dense,  shrieking  mass,  black  against 
the  fiery  glow,  and  figures  jumping  into  the  water — which  was 
already  dotted  with  dark,  swimming  forms,  and  looked  like  a 
turbulent  sea  of  flame  ignited  from  the  spectre  of  a  burning 
boat  below  its  surface.  Among  the  swimming  figures  there 
was,  perhaps,  not  one  but  was  his  enemy — not  one  who  would 
not  hale  him  back  to  the  bondage  from  which  he  was  strug 
gling  away.  Turning  again,  he  swam  on,  heading  against  the 
ponderous  current  which  would  bear  him  down  past  the  city 
and  out  to  sea.  Boats  were  putting  out  in  all  directions  from 
ships  in  the  stream,  and  from  the  shore,  to  pick  up  the  swim 
mers,  many  of  whom  were  swimming  in  front  of  him,  or  cling 
ing  to  pieces  of  drift-wood  or  furniture.  To  avoid  being 
picked  up  by  any  of  the  boats  was  a  necessary  part  of  his 
task,  for  they,  too,  were  manned  by  his  enemies.  Reaching  a 
large  brig  anchored  in  the  stream,  with  a  few  sailors  standing 
on  the  bulwarks  and  in  the  rigging,  watching  the  burning  ves 
sel,  he  resolved  to  cling  to  its  rudder  a  few  moments  to  recover 
breath,  and  as  he  approached  it,  looking  up  through  the 
shadow,  made  luminous  by  the  wan  light  of  the  moon,  and  the 
reflected  glare  of  the  water,  he  read  on  the  stern,  in  white  let 
ters,  the  words,  "  SOLIMAN,  BOSTON."  His  heart  throbbed 
wildly,  and  clinging  to  the  rudder  under  an  overhanging  boat, 
he  listened  to  the  talking  on  the  deck  above  him,  and  presently 
heard  a  voice  say  : 

"  Devilish  lucky  we  weren't  set  afire,  Jones,  and  we  just 
ready  to  sail." 

Just  ready  to  sail  !  He  heard  those  words  with  his  brain 
aflame.  His  chance  had  come.  Setting  his  knees  to  the 
slippery  rudder,  he  began  to  climb.  It  was  hard  work,  for 
the  helm  was  coated  with  sea-slime,  but  at  length  he  got  his 


PROLOGUE.  63 

toes  upon  the  slight  projection  of  one  of  the  iron  clamps  that 
.bound  the  wood  together,  and  scrambling  upward,  laid  hold 
of  the  boat  swinging  astern,  and  softly  clambering  in,  remained 
still,  and  listened.  He  had  not  been  discovered.  The  talking 
above  him  was  still  going  on,  and  presently  he_  heard  the 
tramp  of  the  two  men  as  they  moved  away  forward.  Raising 
himself  in  the  boat,  he  cautiously  peered  in  at  the  cabin  win 
dow.  A  swinging  lamp  was  burning  within,  and  all  was 
quiet.  He  put  in  his  head,  looked  around  him  for  a  moment, 
and  then  stealthily  got  in.  Going  to  the  cabin  door,  he 
peered  out  on  the  deck.  Everybody  was  at  the  bows,  standing 
on  the  bulwarks  and  in  the  rigging  in  the  wild  glare,  watch 
ing  the  steamboat,  which  was  now  one  mass  of  leaping  flame, 
half  a  mile  away  up  the  river.  Cries  and  screams  and 
shouts  were  resounding  from  the  water  in  all  directions. 
Looking  at  the  deck,  he  saw  that  the  hatch  nearest  him  was 
open,  and  nerved  to  desperation,  and  almost  choking  with 
excitement,  he  went  lightly  forward,  his  bare  feet  making  no 
sound,  and,  unseen*  by  any  one,  so  intent  was  the  general  gaze 
on  the  conflagration,  stooped  and  dropped  into  the  hold. 

He  fell  on  a  cotton-bale,  three  or  four  feet  from  the  top, 
and  lay  in  the  thick  darkness,  reeking  with  sweat,  and  listen 
ing,  with  ^  wild  jumping  in  his  throat,  for  any  sound  that 
might  tell  him  his  entrance  had  been  observed.  He  heard 
none.  The  talking  went  on  above  him,  and  it  was  all  about 
the  burning  steamboat.  He  knew  that  he  must  not  remain 
where  he  was,  for  there  he  could  be  seen,  and  in  a  moment  he 
began  to  grope  for  a  hiding-place.  He  was  in  a  sort  of 
square  well,  formed  by  the  cotton-bales  •  around  him.  Above 
them  was  a  horizontal  space  under  the  deck,  and  clambering 
out  of  the  well,  he  wormed  himself  into  this,  a  few  feet  for 
ward,  and  lay,  panting  and  fatigued,  hot,  wet,  hungry  and 
thirsty,  half  stifled  by  the  foul  and  musty  air  of  the  hold, 
and  by  the  smell  of  the  bilge,  but  safe  for  the  present. 

He  lay  in  a  sort  of  stupor,  and  gradually  heard  all  sounds 
die  away.  For  a  little  while  his  mind  was  filled  with  strange 
recollections  of  the  passions  and  events  of  the  last  hour;  then 
lying  prone  in  the  foul  and  musty  darkness,  he  lapsed  into  a 


64:  PROLOGUE. 

sleep  haunted  with  dreams,  in  which  he  was  again  rushing 
through  the  swamp,  which  somehow  changed  into  rolling 
water  on  which  a  steamboat  was  burning,  and  he  was  holding 
up  Madame  Lafitte,  who  suddenly  turned  and  bit  him  on  the 
hand.  Starting  up  in  the  thick  darkness,  he  struck  his  head 
against  the  deck,  and  then  remembering  where  he  was,  lay 
still.  The  hatch  had  been  closed.  In  the  darkness  he  heard 
light  scampering  and  squealing,  and  felt  the  ship  shuddering 
beneath  him. 

He  forgot  his  dream  in  the  wild  whirl  of  emotion  with 
which  he  became  aware  that  the  vessel  was  on  her  way.  Pre 
sently  he  felt  a  sort  of  pricking  in  his  hand,  and  touching  the 
spot,  found  that  it  was  wet,  and,  as  he  again  heard  the  scamper 
ing  and  squealing,  he  knew  that  a  rat  had  bitten  him. 
Startled  a  little  at  the  new  danger  of  being  set  upon  by  these 
vermin,  and  suspicious  of  poison,  he  sucked  the  wound,  resolv 
ing  to  keep  awake  now  as  long  as  he  could.  He  did  not 
know  how  long  he  had  slept,  but  he  coul$  hear  the  incessant 
snort,  snort,  snort,  of  a  steamboat,  with  the  long  unbroken 
wash  of  the  vessel,  and  knew  that  the  brig  was  in  the  tow  of  a 
steam-tug,  and  so  not  yet  out  of  the  river. 

At  length  there  was  a  change  in  the  noises.  Qrders  were 
shouted  above,  heavy  feet  were  rushing  about,  there  was  a 
bustle  of  pulling  and  hauling,  griding  and  flapping,  thudding 
of  ropes  on  deck,  chanting  of  sailors,  amidst  the  receding  snort 
of  the  steam-tug,  and  in  the  darkness,  Antony  felt  the  vessel 
lean  and  roll  and  stagger  with  a  sound  of  swiftly  rushing 
water,  and  knew  that  she  was  standing  out  to  sea. 

Who'll  send  me  back  after  all  I've  gone  through  ?  Who'll 
be  mean  enough  to  do  it  ?  That  was  his  constant  thought 
now,  and  it  came  in  those  words  to  his  mind.  He  knew  the 
penalties  imposed  on  any  captain  who  took  away  a  fugitive  in 
his  vessel.  He  had  thought  of  them  before,  but  dimly;  now 
they  came  to  him  vividly,  and  he  trembled.  He  was  re 
solved  to  remain  in  the  hold  as  long  as  he  could,  but  he  knew 
the  time  would  come  when  he  must  leave  his  hiding-place,  and 
face  the  captain.  His  plan  was  to  tell  him  all  he  had  suifered, 
to  show  him  his  wounds  and  scars,  to  beg  him  on  his  knees  not 


PEOLOGTJE.  65 

to  send  him  back  to  the  Hell  he  had  escaped  from.  Who 
would  do  it  ?  Who'll  send  me  back  after  all  I've  gone 
through  ?  Who'll  be  mean  enough  to  do  it  ? 

Soon  the  motion  of  the  vessel  threw  him,  already  sickened 
by  the  horrible  smells  and  closeness  of  the  hold,  into  ago 
nies  of  sea-sickness,  and  he  lay  *  on  the  bales  vomiting  vio 
lently,  and  feeling  as  if  his  soul  were  rending  his  aching  body 
asunder.  By  and  by,  he  crawled  down  into  the  well-like 
cavity  under  the  hatch,  where  there  was  a  little  more  room  to 
breathe  in,  and  there  he  lay  without  food,  without  drink, 
almost  without  air,  for  three  days. 

Days  of  sickness  too  loathsome  to  be  described,  too  dread 
ful  for  permitted  language  to  convey.  Days  of  utter  prostra 
tion,  of  griping  pain,  of  wrenching  convulsions,  of  horror  inde 
scribable,  of  tortured  death-in-life.  Days  when  the  ropy  and 
putrid  air  was  sucked  into  the  feeble  lungs  as  if  it  were  some 
strangling  substance  ;  when  the  oppressed  heart  beat  slowly 
with  dull  knocks  as  though  it  would  burst  the  bosom,  and  the 
bosom  labored  as  though  it  were  loaded  down  with  tons  of 
iron.  Days  when  sleep  came  down  like  a  weight  of  lead  upon 
the  brain,  and  straggled  with  infernal  dreams,  and  was  broken 
to  fight  off  an  ever-returning  swarrn  of  rats — invisible  vermin 
that  swarmed  over  his  invisible  body  when  it  lay  still,  and . 
were  heard  squeaking  and  pattering  off  in  the  sightless  dark 
ness  when  he  feebly  flung  about  his  limbs  to  beat  them  away. 
Days  whose  mad,  disgustful  horror  was  desperately  borne  for 
the  hope  of  liberty,  for  the  hatred  of  slavery — borne  till  he 
could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  he  resolved  to  beat  upon  the 
hatch  and  cry  aloud  to  let  those  above  him  know  what  a  hell 
of  agony  raged  beneath  their  feet. 

How  long  he  had  been  immured  he  did  not  know.  Count 
time  by  anguish,  and  it  might  have  been  centuries.  Fearful  of 
discovering  himself  till  he  was  too  far  from  the  land  from 
which  he  had  fled  to  be  returned,  he  had  resolved  to  endure 
till  endurance  became  impossible.  For  this  he  had  clung  to 
life,  for  this  he  had  silently  borne  the  horrors  of  his  tomb,  for 
this  he  had  striven  a  hundred  times  against  the  desire  to  end 
his  imprisonment  by  shouting  aloud  to  those  above  liim. 


66  PROLOGUE. 

Now  when  heavy  torpor  and  gradual  giddiness  were  stealing 
upon  him,  and  the  instinct  of  his  soul  told  him  death  was 
drawing  near,  he  roused  himself  for  the  long  deferred 
effort. 

The  ship  was  staggering  heavily,  and  he  heard  the  tramp 
ling  of  feet  on  the  dec^  as,  with  dizzily  reeling  brain,  ho 
feebly  and  slowly  crawled  up  on  his  hands  and  knees.  His 
strength  was  almost  gone.  An  infant  newly  born  could  have 
been  hardly  more  helpless  than  he  found  himself.  He  slowly 
lifted  one  hand  to  lay  it  on  the  bales  beside  him — lifted  it  a 
few  inches  like  something  over  which  he  had  no  command — 
and  it  fell  heavily,  and  losing  his  balance  he  tumbled  down  on 
his  side.  An  awful  feeling  stole  across  his  mind  that  he  had 
delayed  too  long — that  his  resolution  had  outlived  his  physi 
cal  powers.  Turning  over  on  his  back,  feebly  panting,  slowly 
suffocating,  he  drew  in  his  breath  for  a  wild  cry  for  help.  It 
rushed  from  him  in  a  hoarse  whistling  whisper.  His  voice  had 
left  him  ! 

He  lay  still  now,  painfully  breathing,  but  resigned  to  die. 
Quietly — quietly — the  fears  and  desires  of  the  present,  the 
hopes  of  the  future  withdrew,  and  the  vision  of  all  his  past 
floated  softly  through  his  tranquil  brain.  It  faded,  and  he 
lay  rushing  on  a  fast-rushing  tide,  and  dilated  with  a  wonder 
ful  and  mystic  change.  Power  and  beauty  and  joy  ineffable 
began  to  glow  and  spread  divinely  through  his  being  with  the 
vague  beauteous  glimmer  of  a  transcendant  life  afar.  All 
fierce  and  dark  and  sorrowful  passions  and  emotions  gone — all 
sense  of  pain  and  horror  and  disgust  fled  forever — himself 
happier,  greater,  nobler  than  he  had  ever  dreamed — he  lay 
swiftly  drifting  to  the  last  repose. 

What  sound  was  it  that  jarred  so  dully  on  his  failing  ear  ? 
What  sudden  light  was  it  that  fell  upon  him  ?  What  faces 
were  those  that  looked  on  him  so  strangely  from  above,  and 
vanished  with  cries  that  brought  down  darkness  and  silence  on 
him  once  more  ? 

0  blue  sky  of  the  nineteenth  century,  what  is  this  ?  O 
pale,  fresh  light  streaming  into  the  noisome  hold,  what  is  this  ? 
O  wonder-stricken,  silent  faces,  gazing  aghast  upon  that  swart 


PEOLOGUE.  67 

and  loathsome  figure  lying  in  the  shallow  well,  with  an  iron 
collar  on  its  neck,  what  does  this  mean  ? 

The  men  stood  staring  at  the  motionless  body  on  the  bales 
below  them,  and  then,  lost  in  a  trance  of  wonder,  stared  at 
each  other.  Their  wild  amazement  at  the  sight  which  met 
their  eyes  when  they  had  unbattened  the  hatch,  had  burst 
forth  in  one  cry,  and  then  left  them  still  and  dumb.  Pre 
sently  there  was  a  sound  of  heavy,  hurrying  feet,  and  the  cap 
tain,  a  short,  powerfully-built  man,  came  flying  over  the  deck, 
with  strong  excitement  working  in  his  sun-burnt  face,  reached 
the  hold,  looked  in,  turned  livid  with  rage,  slapped  his  straw 
hat  down  on  his  head  with  both  hands,  and  rushed  away  curs 
ing  and  raving  like  a  madman.  It  was  highly  natural.  A 
commercial  Christian  of  the  nineteenth  century  breed,  the 
captain  had  been  educated  to  think  of  nothing  but  his  ship 
and  trade,  and  his  special  reflection  was  of  the  penalties  that 
would  ensue  if  it  became  known  that  he  had  carried  away  a 
slave  from  New  Orleans. 

Recovering  from  their  amazement,  the  sailors,  with  uncouth 
and  profane  ejaculations  of  horror  and  pity,  lifted  the  inani 
mate  body  of  Antony,  disgusting  even  to  their  rude  senses, 
and  touching  even  to  their  rude  sensibilities,  out  of  the  hold. 
They  had  hardly  laid  it  on  deck  when  the  captain  came  rush-* 
ing  back  again,  shouting  with  oaths  an  order  for  a  look-out 
up  aloft,  with  the  hope  of  meeting  some  vessel  bound  for  the 
city  he  had  left  that  would  take  the  slave  back.  Then  giving 
the  prostrate  body  a  furious  kick,  he  rushed  away  again, 
storming  and  stamping  and  swearing. 

At  the  direction  of  the  mate,  the  sailors  took  the  faintly- 
breathing  body  of  Antony  forward  to  the  galley,  where  the 
black  cook  busied  himself  in  reviving  the  fugitive.  Half  a 
dozen  times  a  day  the  captain  came  to  the  spot  where  the  feeble 
man  reclined,  and  glared  at  him  without  saying  a  word.  On 
the  third  day,  Antony  being  then  weak  but  able  to  stand  and 
talk,  the  captain  demanded  him  to  give  an  account  of  himself. 

Feebly  standing  before  him,  with  all  the./  vigor  gone  from 
his  emaciated  form,  and  with  the  deep  marks  of  awful  suffer 
ing  graven  on  his  wasted  lineaments,  Antony  told  his  story. 


00  PROLOGUE. 

As  he  finished,  imploring  the  captain  in  earnest  and  broken  tones 
not  to  send  him  back,  the  mate,  who  stood  by,  turned  away  with 
his  mouth  twitching,  saying  it  was  a  damned  shame.  The  cap 
tain  burst  into  a  fit  of  passion,  and  stamped  on  the  deck,  ges 
ticulating  with  clenched  hands. 

"  A  damned  shame,  is  it,  Mr.  Jones  ?"  he  roared,  perfectly 
livid  with  rage.  "  I  should  think  it  was  !  Rather  !  A 
blasted  nigger  to  smuggle  his  ugJy  carcass  aboard  my  brig 
— what  d'ye  think  they'll  say  about  it  at  Orleans,  and  what'll 
they  do  about  it,  Mr.  Jones,  and  what'll  Atkins  say  when  he 
hears  of  it,  Mr.  Jones,  and  a  load  of  cotton  aboard  from  the 
very  house  whose  junior  partner  owns  this  dingy  curse,  Mr. 
Jones  !  Look  at  the  name  of  the  house  on  his  neck,  man. 
Blast  ye/'  he  howled,  turning  upon  Antony,  and  shaking  both 
fists  at  him,  "  I'd  send  ye  back,  you  beggar,  if  they  were  to 
fry  ye  in  your  own  black  blood  when  they  got  ye  1  Send  ye 
back  ?  If  I  don't,  may  I  be  eternally  " 

He  finished  the  sentence  by  a  gasp,  and  dashed  both 
clenched  fists  into  the  haggard  and  imploring  face  of  the  fugi 
tive,  who  fell  to  the  deck,  covered  with  blood.  Shouting  and 
cursing,  the  infuriated  captain  leaped  on  him,  and  seizing  him 
by  the  hair,  beat  his  head  against  the  planks  ;  then  jumped 
•to  his  feet,  capering  like  a  madman,  and  brandishing  his 
clenched  fists.  The  mate  stood  looking  away  to  the  horizon, 
with  a  mute,  flushed  face,  and  two  or  three  of  the  sailors 
standing  not  far  distant,  dumb  witnesses  of  this  brutal  scene, 
glanced  at  each  other  with  mutinous  brows.  Striding  off  a 
dozen  paces,  the  captain  turned  again,  bringing  down  his 
clenched  fist  with  a  slap  into  the  palm  of  his  hand,  and  stamp 
ing  with  his  right  foot  on  the  deck  as  he  shouted  : 

"  Keep  a  sharp  look-out,  Mr.  Jones  1  The  first  vessel  that 
heaves  in  sight  for  New  Orleans  shall  take  him  if  it  costs  me  a 
hundred  dollars.  And  if  he  gets  to  Boston,  I'll  tie  him  hand 
and  foot,  and  send  him  or  fetch  him  back  the  first  chance,  or 
my  name's  not  Bangham  !" 

He  foamed  off  into  the  cabin.  Who'll  send  me  back  after 
all  I've  gone  through  ?  Who'll  be  mean  enough  to  do  it  ? 
Antony  had  received  his  answer  ,» 


HAEETNGTON. 


CIIArTER    I. 

THE    REIGN    OF    TERROR. 

IF,  on  or  about  the  twenty-fifth  of  May,  1852,  a  fugitive 
from  Southern  tyranny  were  to  arrive  in  Boston,  he  would 
probably  very  soon  discover  two  things — first,  that  he  must 
seek  refuge  with  the  people  of  his  own  color,  in  the  quarter 
vulgarly  known  as  Nigger  Hill  ;  secondly,  that  though  they 
had  once  lived  there  in  safety,  neither  he  nor  they  could  live 
there  in  safety  any  more. 

There  were,  at  that  period,  about  three  thousand  colored 
people,  a  large  proportion  of  them  fugitives,  residing  in  Bos 
ton,  and  the  greater  part  of  them  lived  in  the  quarter  above 
mentioned.  It  was  on  the  slope  of  Beacon  Hill — one  of  the 
three  hills  which  gave  to  the  town  its  old  name  of  Trimount. 
On  the  crown  of  the  hill  towered  the  domed  State  House  ; 
behind  and  around  it  rose,  street  on  street  descending,  the 
dwellings  of  the  aristocracy  ;  and  behind  them,  a  deep  fringe 
of  humble  poverty,  rose,  street  on  street,  the  dingy  dwellings 
of  the  fugitives.  There  was  a  maxim  of  statesmanship  then 
current  :  "  Take  care  of  the  rich,  and  the  rich  will  take  care 
of  the  poor."  It  had  been  acted  upon.  The  rich  had  been 
taken  care  of,  and  they  had  taken  such  care  of  these  poor, 
that  at  that  period  there  was  no  safety  for  them,  as  for  two 
years  previous  there  had  been  no  safety  for  them  in  the  city 
of  Boston.  Sidney's  Latin  blazed  in  gold  on  the  walls  of  that 
State  House  :  Ense  petit  pladdam  sub  libertate  quietem — The 
State  seeks  by  the  sword  the  calm  repose  of  liberty.  But  the 
holy  legend  was  dim,  and  not  with  the  sword  of  Sidney,  nor 
with  the  sword  of  the  Spirit,  sought  Boston*  the  calm  repose 
of  liberty  for  the  poor  fugitives  who  had  fled  from  the  meanest 
and  the  vilest  tyranny  that  ever  blackened  the  world. 


70  HJUZEINGTOtf. 

Yet  it  was  the  city  of  fugitives,  and  fugitives  had  laid  its 
old  foundations  down  in  pain  and  prayer.  Winthrop  and 
Dudley,  Bellingham,  Leverett,  Coddington,  the  star-sweet 
Lady  Arabella,  with  their  compeers,  men  and  women  of  true 
and  gentle  blood,  and  fugitives  all,  had  reared  it  from  the 
wilderness.  Fugitives  who  taught  t*  tyrant  that  he  had  a 
joint  in  his  neck,  had  fled  thither  when  the  reborn  tyranny 
again  arose  in  their  own  land.  Fugitiven  dwelling  there  who 
remembered  in  their  own  sufferings  the  sufferings  of  others, 
had  helped  frame  the  noble  statute  of  1641,  welcoming  to 
State  and  city  any  strangers  who  might  fly  thither  from  the 
tyranny  or  oppression  of  their  persecutors.  Fugitive  hands — 
the  hands  of  the  Huguenot  Faneuil — had  dowered  it  with  the 
cradling  Hall  of  Liberty  named  with  his  name.  Over  it  all,  and 
through  it  all,  and  tincturing  its  history  in  the  very  grain, 
was  the  tradition  of  the  fugitive.  Still,  in  modern  days,  fugi 
tives  fled  thither  from  the  broken  hopes,  the  baffled  efforts,  the 
lost  battles  of  continental  freedom.  German  fugitives,  Italian 
fugitives,  French  fugitives,  Irish  fugitives,  flying  from  their 
persecutors,  arrived  there  and  nestled  under  the  broad  wing 
of  the  old  statute.  At  that  period,  too,  the  great  Hungarian 
fugitive,  Kossuth,  had  come,  with  a  host  of  other  Hungarian 
fugitives  at  his  back,  and  the  town,  like  the  land,  had  roared 
and  blazed  *  in  welcome.  All  these  fugitives,  of  whatever 
nation,  were  safe  in  Boston.  No  tyrant  could  molest  them. 
But  the  fugitives  from  the  South — the  black  Americans,  men 
and  women,  who  had  fled  thither  for  protection  from  a 
tyranny  in  no  wise  different  from  any  other,  save  in  its  sordid 
vileness  and  abominable  excess  of  cruelty  and  outrage — there 
was  no  safety  for  them. 

They  were,  for  the  most  part,  humble  people — their  souls 
crushed  and  bruised,  as  Plato  says,  with  servile  employments. 
Their  lives  had  been  obstructed  by  slavery  ;  slavery  had  nur 
tured  in  them  some  vices,  had  dwarfed  and  crippled  in  them 
many  virtues.  They  were,  in  the  mass,  uncouth,  grotesque, 
ungainly,  repulsive  to  the  eye  ;  they  were  degraded,  imbruted, 
low,  ignorant,  weak  and  poor  ;  and,  therefore,  the  heart  of 
every  gentleman  should  have  leaped,  like  Burke's  sword  from 


HARRINGTON. 

its  scabbard,  to  avenge  even  a  look  that  threatened  them  with 
insult.  Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  there  were  many  among  them 
too  comely  and  noble  to  need  the  defence  the  hearts  of  cheva 
liers  fling  around  thosa  to  whom  Man  and  Nature  have  been 
unkind.  "In  the  negro  countenance,"  says  Charles  Lamb, 
"  you  will  often  meet  with  strong  traits  of  benignity.  I  have 
felt  yearnings  of  tenderness  toward  some  of  these  faces,  or 
rather  masks,  that  have  looked  out  kindly  upon  one  in,  casual 
encounters  in  the  streets  and  highways.  I  love  what  Fuller 
beautifully  calls — those  'images  of  God  cut  in  ebony.7" 
The  gentle  Londoner  could  have  said  it  all,  and  more,  of  the 
negro  faces  one  met  in  Boston,  and  he  might  have  added  a  far 
prouder  word  for  the  character  that  matched  the  faces.  For 
all  that  is  manliest  in  manhood,  all  that  is  wornanliest  in 
womanhood,  rose  here  and  there,  with  tropic  energy,  un- 
crushed  by  the  load  of  past  slavery  and  present  social  wrong, 
among  those  people.  •  Piety,  rude  and  simple,  it  may  be,  yet 
fervent  and  mighty  as  ever  clasped  with  tears  the  Savior's 
feet,  or  rose  through  eternity  to  faint  in  the  raptures  of  prayer 
before  the  throne  of  Jehovah  ;  love,  none  more  loyal  and 
tender,  for  the  father,  the  mother,  the  husband,  the  wife,  the 
child,  the  home,  the  country  ;  compassion,  quick  and  strong 
for  mutual  succor  ;  flush-handed  hospitality  ;  courtesy  bora 
not  of  art  but  nature  ;  patience  ;  cheerfulness  ;  self-respect ; 
laborious  industry  ;  ambition  to  rise  and  to  excel,  despite  of 
fettering  disabilities  and  thick-strewn  obstacles  ;  heroic  bravery 
and  endurance,  such  as  blanch  the  cheeks  and  shake  the  hearts 
of  those  who  read  or  hear  the  pains  and  perils  negroes  have 
dared  for  their  own  freedom,  and  nobler  still,  the  freedom  of 
their  fellows — these,  and  many  other  virtues,  bourgeoned  and 
blossomed  in  the  hearts  and  lives  of  the  black  fugitiy.es.  For 
these  people,  whatever  pro-slavery  snobs  and  sciolists  might 
say  of  them,  or  however  they  might  prate  of  their  inferiority, 
were,  nevertheless,  of  worthy  blood.  Take  as  one  sure  proof 
of  the  negro's  native  elegance  and  gentility  of  soul,  his  lov« 
and  talent  for  music.  The  old  genius  of  Africa  which  taught 
the  lips  of  Memnon  those  weird  auroral  tones  which  enchanted 
the  valley  of  the  Nile,  still  haunts  the  broken  souls  of  the  race 


72  HAEEIXGTOX. 

on  this  continent.  America  has  no  distinctive  music  but  her 
negro  melodies.  Listening  to  those  merry  rigadoon  tunes, 
wonderful  for  their  jovial  sweetness  and  facile  celerity  of  move 
ment,  or  to  those  melancholy  or  mournful  chants,  ineffable  in 
pathos,  which  thrill  the  spirit  with  their  wild,  mysterious 
cadences,  he  would  have  little  wit  who  could  deny  the  spiritual 
worth  of  the  race  whose  fugitives  at  that  period  found  no  safety 
in  Boston. 

No  safety.  None  at  all.  Yet  Boston  had  it  to  remember 
that  one  of  the  first  five  martyrs  of  her  freedom  and  of  the 
freedom  of  America,  was  a  negro — Crispus  Attucks.  But 
Boston's  remembrance  of  that  fact  seemed  at  that  time  to  be 
almost  confined  to  a  certain  literary  slop-pail  who  periodically 
emptied  himself  upon  the  fame  of  the  hero  whom  John  Han 
cock  and  Samuel  Adams  had  thought  worthy  of  funeral  honors. 
Boston  had,  for  many  years,  paid  her  debt  of  gratitude  to 
Attucks  by  treating  the  men  and  women  of  his  race  something 
after  the  fashion  that  Jews  were  treated  in  the  Middle  Ages. 
They  had  their  Ghetto  at  the  west  end  of  the  town  ;  there 
they  lived  by  sufferance,  despised,  rejected,  borne  down  by  a 
social  scorn  which,  to  the  noblest  of  them,  was  daily  heart 
break,  and  which  the  lowliest  of  them  could  not  bear  without 
pain.  They  had  a  narrow  range  of  humble  employments  and 
avocations,  such  as  window-cleaning,  white-washing,  boot-black 
ing,  cab-driving,  porterage,  domestic  service,  and  the  like  ;  keep 
ing  a  barber's  shop  or  an  old  clothes  shop,  was  perhaps  the  highest 
occupation  open  to  them  ;  and  these  they  pursued  faithfully  and 
industriously.  They  were  shut  out  of  the  mechanic  occupations  ; 
shut  out  of  commerce  ;  shut  out  of  the  professions.  They 
were  excluded  from  the  'omnibuses  ;  excluded  from  the  first- 
class  cars  ;  excluded  from  the  theatres  unless  the  manager 
could  make  a  place  for  them  where  seeing  or  hearing  was  next 
to  impossible  ;  excluded  from  some  of  the  churches  by  express 
provision,  and  from  most,  if  not  all,  of  the  others,  by  tacit 
understanding  ;  excluded  from  the  common  schools,  and  allotted 
caste-schools  where  to  learn  anything  was  against  nature  ; 
excluded  from  the  colleges  ;  excluded  from  the  decent  dwell 
ings  ;  excluded  from  the  decent  graveyards  ;  excluded  from 


HARRINGTON.  73 

almost  everything.  They  were,  however,  freely  admitted  to 
the  gallows  and  the  jail.  But -these,  somehow  or  other,  saw 
less  of  them  than  of  the  race  that  despised  them. 

For  all  the  years  anterior  to  the  period  under  notice,  these 
people  had  been,  speaking  in  a  general  way,  safe  in  Boston. 
There  had,  to  be  sure,  been  occasional  instances  of  private  kid 
napping,  little  known  ;  and  there  had  been  an  abortive  attempt 
to  legally  clutch  into  slavery  one  negro,  Latimcr.  Still,  Bos 
ton  cherished,  sentimentally,  at  least,  free  principles,  and  the 
New  England  traditions  and  laws,  all  favoring  liberty,  had 
been  strong  enough  in  her  borders  to  protect  the  fugitives. 
Moreover,  the  caste  prejudices  against  them  had  for  twenty 
years  or  so  preceding  been  slowly  breaking  down.  During 
that  time,  thanks  to  one  heroic  saint,  Emerson — thanks  to  one 
saintly  hero,  Garrison — the  dawn  of  a  new  era  was  broadening 
up  the  northern  sky,  and  all  things  had  begun  to  come  under 
the  sovereignty  of  reason.  Emerson  had  shed  the  new  and  free 
disclosing  light  of  a  poet's  soul  and  a  scholar's  mind  on  the 
great  problems  of  spiritual  and  secular  life  :  straightway  the 
primal  soul  held  session  ;  the  old  decisions  were  unsettled  ; 
everything  was  to  be  reexamined  ;  thought  awoke  ;  the  breeze 
streamed  ;  the  sun  shone  ;  the  Dutch  canal  fled  into  a  rushing 
river  ;  all  that  was  generous,  all  that  was  thoughtful,  all  that; 
was  intrepid  in  New  England  uprose  from  lethargy  ;  and 
while  he — 

"  with  low  tones  that  decide, 

And  doubt  and  reverend  use  defied — 
With  a  look  that  solved  the  sphere, 
And  stirred  the  devils  everywhere — 
Gave  his  sentiment  divine," 

the  contest  of  reason  against  authority  and  precedent  began, 
and  amidst  much  theological  mud-flinging  and  unable-editor 
jeering,  continued  from  year  to  year,  awakening  the  distinctive 
intellectual  life  of  America.  On  the  other  hand,  Garrison 
had  impeached  Slavery  before  the  nation,  as  the  giant  foe  of 
civil  and  political  liberty,  democracy,  sociefy,  humanity,  in  a 
word,  civilization  ;  and  amidst  a  roaring  storm  of  rancor,  and 
the  howls  of  slavers  and  traders,  that  tremendous  trial  also 

4 


74  II  ARLINGTON. 

began,  and  continued  from  year  to  year.  At  the  outset,  Bos 
ton  merchants,  convulsed  with  sordid  fear  lest  their  southern 
trade  should  suffer  by  this  arraignment  of  the  oligarchy,  ga 
thered  in  a  mob  to  hang  the  -gallant  citizen — had,  in  fact,  the 
rope  already  around  his  neck,  when  the  Mayor  put  him  in  jail, 
as  a  dastardly  way  of  saving  him.  At  the  outset,  too,  the 
gentle  Governor  of  Georgia  issued  an  official  proclamation 
offering  five  thousand  dollars  reward  for  his  assassination. 
Happy,  free  America  !  But  Garrison  had  in  his  heart  all  that 
made  patriots  and  Puritans,  and  amidst  a  tempest  of  persecu 
tion  unequalled  since  the  Dark  Ages,  dauntless  with  pen  and 
voice,  he  held  his  course  against  Slavery  like  the  thunder 
storm  against  the  wind.  To  his  aid  gathered  a  little  group  of 
gentlemen  and  gentlewomen,  writers  and  orators  of  marked 
power.  Abby  Kelley,  fair  and  eloquent  for  liberty  as  ever 
the  Greek  Hypatia  for  science  :  Lydia  Maria  Child,  whose 
generous  and  exquisite  literary  genius  all  know  :  Mrs.  Chap 
man,  her  thought  shining  in  a  terse,  crystalline  diction,  like 
gold  in  a  mountain  -stream  :  Angelina  and  Sarah  Grimke, 
Carolinians,  who  knew  what  Slavery  was,  and  knew  how  to 
flash  the  heart's  light  upon  it  :  Berlah  Green,  a  master  of  the 
old  ignited  logic  :  Theodore  Weld,  a  resplendent  and  indomi 
table  torrent  of  brave  speech  :  Edmund  Quincy,  wit,  humor 
ist,  satirist,  gentleman,  with  the  best  spirit  of  the  days  of 
Queen  Anne  in  his  thought  and  style  :  Wendell  Phillips,  with 
a  fiery  glory  of  classic  oratory,  strange,  but  for  him,  to  the 
air  of  America  :  Burleigh,  Francis  Jackson,  in  later  years 
Theodore  Parker,  these,  and  a  score  of  others  gathered  around 
Garrison,  sacrificing  name  and  fame,  genius,  scholarship,  wealth, 
everything  they  had  to  sacrifice,  to  the  heroic  task  of  redeem 
ing  their  country  from  its  shame  and  wo.  Outside  of  this 
organization  was  Channing,  with  words  like  morning  :  John 
Quincy  Adams,  too,  during  those  years,  fought  the  battle  of 
free  speech  in  the  halls  of  Congress  :  Webster,  also,  poured 
the  lightning  and  thunder  of  his  mind  against  the  extension 
of  slavery,  though  never,  save  in  the  abstract,  against  slavery  it 
self  :  the  Whig  party  backed  him  ;  the  men  of  the  Liberty 
party,  and  in  later  years  the  Free  Soil  party,  came  to  the  side 


HARRINGTON.  75 

issues  of  the  war.  But  these  were  not  the  Abolitionists  pro 
per  ;  the  Abolitionists  were  those  who  stood  with  Garrison, 
and  their  work  was  with  Slavery  itself.  Against  it  they 
reared  Alps  of  testimony  and  argument  ;  they  exposed  it 
utterly  ;  they  bent  every  energy  to  the  task  of  rousing  the 
nation  to  its  annihilation.  Part  of  their  task  was  the  eleva 
tion  of  the  fugitives  in  Boston,  and  it  was  owing  to  their 
efforts  that  the  caste  prejudices  were  breaking  down.  The 
comparative  triumph  of  the  present  time,  whose  signal  is  that 
the  black  child  sits  on  equal  terms  in  the  Boston  schools  with 
the  white,  was  not  then  achieved,  but  still,  at  the  period  under 
notice,  much  had  been  done.  The  cars  were  open  to  the  ne 
gro,  the  omnibuses,  the  decent  dwellings,  some  mechanic 
occupations,  some  of  the  churches  ;  and  one  or  two  colored 
lawyers  had  been  admitted  to  the  Boston  Bar.  The  theatres 
still  held  out  ;  the  "  respectable  "  churches,  of  course — spite 
of  the  black  bishops  of  the  days  of  Paul  and  Angnstm? ; 
commerce,  also  ;  the  schools  and  colleges,  likewise  ;  but  the 
Abolitionists  were  battering  on  the  wall,  and  it  was  breaking, 
breaking,  breaking  slowly  down. 

Suddenly  over  these  struggling  tides  of  light  and  darkness 
swept  the  black  refluent  surge  of  barbarism.  In  the  year 
1850,  Congress  passed  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law.  The  great 
Humboldt  justly  called  it  "  the  Webster  law" — for  with  Web 
ster  against  it,  it  either  could  not  have  passed,  or  having 
passed,  it  never  could  have  been  executed.  Webster  hostile 
to  it,  and  the  North  would  have  risen  around  him  as  one  man. 
But  the  tihie  had  come  for  the  Presidential  candidates  to 
make  their  game,  and  on  the  seventh  of  March,  1850,  Web 
ster  made  his  game.  The  draft  of  a  speech  for  freedom  lying 
in  his  desk,  he  stood  up  in  the  Senate,  spoke  a  speech  for 
slavery,  which  was  at  war  with  every  other  speech  of  his"  pre 
vious  life,  and  his  game  was  made.  He  made  it,  played  it, 
lost  it,  died,  and  lies  cursed  with  forgiveness/  and  buried  in 
tears. 

A  cold,  hard  Southern  tyrant,  Mason  of  Virginia,  created 
the  black  statute;  a  sleek,  pleasant  Northern  traitor,  Fillmore 
of  New  York,  then  sitting  in  the  Presidential  chair,  unleashed 


76  HARRINGTON. 

it,  and  it  burst  forth  in  mischief  and  ruin,  upon  the  homes  of 
the  poor.  Such  a  law  !  The  fugitive  to  be  haled  before  a 
Commissioner;  no  Judge,  no  Jury;  his  former  slavery  sworn  to 
by  any  unknown  claimant,  he  was  to  be  sent  into  bondage  ; 
five  dollars  to  the  Commissioner  if  he  set  him  free,  ten  dollars 
if  he  made  him  a  slave.  Six  months  imprisonment,  and  fifteen 
hundred  dollars  fine  to  any  person  who  gave  a  fugitive  food  to 
eat,  water  to  drink,  a  room  to  rest  in.  Happy,  free  America! 
At  first  Boston  was  horrified  at  the  law,  and  aghast  at  the 
course  of  Webster.  But  the  first  shock  over,  Boston  became 
filled  with  patriotic  ardor,  and  the  black  statute  not  only  rose 
in  favor,  but  slavery  itself  became  the  theme  of  eulogy.  It 
was  about  that  period  that  an  eminent  Philadelphia  surgeon 
rushed  one  morning,  with  a  glowing  face,  before  the  college- 
class,  and  holding  up  a  horrid  mass  before  their  astonished 
eyes,  screamed,  in  a  voice  trembling  with  passionate  enthusi 
asm  :  "  Oh,  gentlemen!  gentlemen,  what  a  be-a-uttful  cancer!" 
With  an  enthusiasm  not  less  rapturous  than  his,  the  Whig 
and  Democratic  politicians  of  that  period  expatiated  upon  the 
charms  of  the  obscene  and  filthy  oligarchic  wen  which  hung 
from  the  neck  of  the  South,  and  the  black,  accursed  conglo 
merated  pustule  of  a  Fugitive  Slave  Law,  which  inoculated  from 
it,  now  deformed  the  whole  face  of  the  North.  Slavery  was  a 
perfectly  paradisaical  and  divine  institution;  agitation  against 
it  must  cease  :  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law  was  instinct  with  the 
purest  and  noblest  patriotism  —  the  fugitive  men,  women 
and  children  must  be  hunted  down  by  it  with  alacrity,  or  the 
South  would  dissolve  the  Union.  To  this  effect  the  beautiful 
emasculate  eloquence  of  Everett  moved  forth  in  balanced 
cadence  ;  to  this  effect  raved  rancorous  in  Bedlam  beauty,  the 
intervolved,  inextricable,  splendor-spotted  snarl  and  coil  of 
Choate's  bewildering  orations  ;  to  this  effect,  all  up  and  down 
the  land,  for  two  years,  rolled  Webster's  dark  and  orotund 
malignant  thunder.  Everywhere  in  their  train  a  host  of 
blatherers  and  roarers  spouted  and  bawled — stop  agita 
tion — execute  the  Slave  Law — save  the  Union  !  It  was 
a  period  of  absolute  insanity.  The  Union,  was  not  in  the 
slightest  danger — proof  of  that,  the  stocks  never  fell. 


HARRINGTON.  77 

The  South  would  no  more  have  dared  to  dissolve  the  Union 
than  a  man  would  dare  to  swim  in  the  Maelstrom.  But  the 
Southern  insanity  of  tyranny  demanded  the  North  for  its  man- 
hunting  ground  ;  the  northern  insanity  of  avarice  yielded  the 
demand  to  get  southern  trade  ;  between  the  slaver  and  trader, 
the  politicians'  insanity  of  power  made  its  game  ;  and  the  pre 
text  for  all  was  the  salvation  of  the  Union.  Millions  of  the 
people  cried,  "  Save  the  Union  !"  A  thousand  presses 
reechoed  the  cry.  An  immense  majority  of  the  clergy  echoed 
it  again  from  their  pulpits.  The  things  ministers  said  in  de 
fence  of  slavery  and  its  black  statute  were  only  less  incredible 
than  the  manner  in  which  they  were  received.  For  instance, 
the  Rev.  Dr.  Dewey,  an  eminent  divine,  was  reported  to  have 
declared  in  a  public  lecture  that  he  would  send  his  own  mother 
into  slavery  to  save  the  Union  ;  a  storm  of  rebuke  at  once 
burst  upon  him  from  the  anti-slavery  people,  and  this  senti 
ment  was  not  considered  satisfactory  even  by  citizens  of  the 
highest  respectability:  whereupon  Dr.  Dewey  explained  that 
he  had  not  said  he  would  send  his  own  mother  into  slavery  to 
save  the  Union,  but  that  he  had  said  he  would  consent  that 
his  own  brother  or  his  own  son  should  go  into  slavery  to  save 
the  Union — and  the  citizens  of  the  highest  respectability  con 
sidered  this  sentiment  as  highly  satisfactory  !  So  amidst  such 
talk  and  such  applause  as  this,  the  pro-slavery  furore  pothered 
on,  and  the  North  was  incessantly  urged  to  enforce  the  black 
statute  as  the  price  of  safety  to  the  nation,  and  incessantly  re 
minded  of  the  priceless  privileges  the  Union  secured  to  us. 
Perhaps  it  did — but  not  least  prominent  among  them  was  the 
priceless  privilege  of  paying  the  debts  of  South  Carolina,  and 
the  other  priceless  privilege  of  hunting  men  and  women  on  the 
soil  of  the  old  patriots  and  Puritans. 

Meanwhile  the  Reign  of  Terror  had  begun,  and  the  hell 
hound  of  a  law  was  ravening  on  its  victims.  It  raged  chiefly 
in  the  great  cities,  and  from  these  the  fugitives,  their  years  of 
safety  over,  were  flying  by  thousands  to  the  wild  Canadian 
snows.  But  the  Abolitionists  were  upon  the/  law.  Upon  it 
Theodore  Parker  hashed  the  bolted  thunder  of  his  speech. 
Upon  it  burst  the  inextinguishable  Greek  fire  of  eloquence 


78  HARRINGTON. 

from  the  fortressed  soul  of  Wendell  Phillips.     Upon  it,  in  a 
word,  all  the  men  and  women,  the  Britomarts  and  Tancreds 
of  the  glorious  minority,  hurtled  like  a  storm  of  swords.     The 
Free  Soilers,  too,  were  up,  and  did  gallant  service.     Giddings, 
Scward,  Wilson,  Burlingame,  Mann,  Sewall,  Chase,  Sumner, 
all  the  gentlemen  and  chevaliers  of  that  league,  were  in  the 
field.     Charles  Sumner  shook  Faneuil  Hall  with  words  that 
beat  with  the  blood  of  all  the  ages.     In  New  York,  Beecher 
burst  upon  the  monster  with  tempests  of  generous  flame,  and 
the  Hebraic  speech  of  Cheever  fought  with  the  prowess  of 
the  Maccabees.     All  over  the  North,  in  country  towns  and  in 
some  city  pulpits,  there  were  valiant  clergymen,  whose  souls 
went  forth  in  arms.     The  Free  Soil  presses  everywhere,  became 
catapults  and  mangonels,  showering  a  hail  of  invective  and 
argument  upon  the  law.     But  the  monster,  panoplied  in  legal 
forms,  and  girt  with  a  myriad  of  defenders,  was  hard  to  kill. 
Beaten  from  some  places,  crippled  sorely,,  it  still  lives,  and  even 
at  this  hour,  in  New  York,  in  Philadelphia,  and  in  other  cities, 
drags  down  and  devours  its  victims.     At  the  period  under  no 
tice,  its  power  was  strong  in  Boston.     Boston,  in  the  brand 
ing  phrase  of  Theodore    Parker,  had   gone   for   kidnapping. 
Her  Webster,  her  city  officers,  her  aristocracy,  her  courts,  her 
prominent  newspapers,  her  traders  and  her  rabble,  were  all 
hostile  -to  the  unhappy  fugitives.     That  law,  however,  was 
doing  the  most   powerful   anti-slavery  service   ever   done  in 
America.     But  its  results — for  it  broke  up  the  Whig  party, 
sowed  death  in  the  bones  of  the  Democratic  party,  sent  Charles 
Sumner  to  Congress,  made  the  Republicans  a  power  in  the 
land,  and  taught  the  people  a  detestation  of  slavery  which 
they  had  never  known  before — its  results  were  not  then  fully 
deposited,  or  at  least  clearly  seen  ;  they  were  still  operant  to 
their  end  ;  and  all  noble  hearts  were  bowed  in  sickening  sor 
row,  for  it  seemed  as  if  liberty,  humanity,  civilization,  all,  were 
going  down  forever. 

It  was,  then,  this  hell-dog  of  a  law  that  had  made  it  no 
longer  safe  for  the  fugitives  in  Boston.  And  who  is  he  who 
shall  undertake  to  paint  the  agony  of  those  men  and  women  ? 
He  must  dip  his  pencil  in  the  hues  of  earthquake  and  eclipse 


HAKJRINGTON.  79 

who  aims  to  do  it.  Their  years  of  security  were  over.  The 
first  news  of  the  passage  of  the  law  drove  scores  of  them  to 
Canada,  and  day  by  day  they  were  flying.  Numbers  of  their 
people  had  already  been  taken  from  other  cities  into  slavery, 
when  the  first  slave  case,  that  of  Shadrach,  occurred  in  Bos 
ton.  Ten  or  twelve  gallant  black  men  burst  into  the  court 
room,  and  took  Shadrach  from  his  foes.  Boston  howled. 
Soon  another  fugitive,  Sims,  was  dragged  before  the  Com 
missioner.  No  rescue  for  him;  the  court-house  was  ringed 
with  chains,  under  which  the  Chief  Justice  of  Massachusetts, 
and  other  Judges,  crawled  to  their  seats;  the  cutlasses  and 
bludgeons  of  the  Government  begirt  the  captive,  and  fifteen 
hundred  Boston  gentlemen  offered  to  put  muskets  to  their 
shoulders,  if  desired,  to  insure  his  being  taken  into  bondage. 
"  The  Fifteen  Hundred  Scoundrels,"  Wendell  Phillips  christened 
this  brigade  of  wretches,  praying  that  bankruptcy  might  sit 
on  the  ledger  of  every  one  of  them.  Nine  days  the  Abolition 
ists  and  Free-Soilers  fought  the  case,  impeded  the  Jedburgh 
justice — the  bitter  mockery  of  that  infamous  trial;  then  Sims 
was  environed  with  cutlasses  and  pistols,  marched,  at  early 
dawn,  to  the  vessel  a  Boston  merchant  volunteered  for  his 
rendition,  and  sent  into  slavery.  The  only  news  of  him  after 
that,  was  that  he  had  been  scourged  to  death  at  Savannah. 
His  capture  and  murder  completed  the  ghastly  alarm  of  the 
Boston  fugitives.  From  that  hour  they  lived  in  an  atmos 
phere  of  unimaginable  fear  and  gloom.  Frequent  reports 
that  kidnappers  were  in  town,  harried  many  of  them  off  to 
join  the  thirty  thousand  fugitives  who  had  fled  from  the  ten 
der  mercies  of  America  to  seek  refuge  in  the  bleak  wilds  or 
towns  of  Canada.  Churches  were  suspended;  business 
arrested;  families  were  broken  up;  wives  and  husbands  sepa 
rated;  fathers  had  to  leave  their  sons;  sons  their  fathers; 
parents  their  children  ;  for  the  peril  was  often  immediate, 
and  there  was  no  time  for  delay.  At  every  fresh  rumor 
that  kidnappers  were  in  town,  the  colored  people  would 
hurry  up  from  their  occupations  to  their  homes — some  to  fly, 
aided  by  their  richer  brethren,  or  by  the  compassion  of  the 
anti-slavery  people — others  to  gather  in  the  streets  in  excited 


80  HAKKINGTON. 

discussion — and  others,  with  that  desperate  and  splendid 
courage  which  is  one  of  the  distinctive  virtues  of  the  negro,  to 
fortify  their  dwellings,  and  prepare  for  a  death-grapple  with 
their  hunters.  Thick-crowding  cares  and  fears,  distress,  alarm, 
foreboding,  agony,  few  friends,  a  thousand  foes,  this  was  their 
bitter  portion. 

Such,  briefly  and  faintly  sketched,  was  the  state  of  affairs 
among  these  poor  people  in  the  City  of  the  Fugitive  at  that 
period.  What  wonder  men  of  heart  desponded  ?  It  was  not 
a  despised  Abolitionist,  but  an  Abolitionist  whom  none  des 
pise — the  Lord  of  Civilization  standing  calm  above  the  ages, 
he  whose  spirit  slowly  wins  the  world  from  wrong  ;  it  was 
Francis  Bacon  of  Yerulam  who  said  that  when  Commerce 
dominates  in  the  State,  the  State  is  in  its  decline.  Commerce 
dominated  then.  Science,  arts,  laws,  religion,  morality, 
humanity,  justice,  liberty,  the  rights,  the  hearts  of  mankind — 
all  must  give  way  to  it.  Rapacious  and  insolent,  it  ruled  and 
flourished  over  all. 

Yet  there  were  rays  of  hope  and  auguries  of  better  days  in 
Boston  even  then,  and  the  new  was  stirring  in  the  old.  Emer 
son  was  saturating  the  intellectual  life  of  the  city,  and  through 
it  the  mind  of  America,  with  the  nobleness  of  his  thought. 
Theodore  Parker,  gigantesque  in  learning,  courage,  devotion 
to  mankind,  less  a  man  than  a  Commonwealth  of  noble  powers, 
was  in  his  pulpit,  with  a  strong  and  growing  hold  on  the  minds 
and  hearts  of  the  people.  The  Abolitionists  were  toiling  terri 
bly  with  all  their  splendid  might  of  conscience,  their  genius 
and  their  eloquence,  to  rouse  the  North  to  a  settlement  with 
the  Slave  Oligarchy.  The  Free-Soilers  were  indefatigably  labor 
ing  to  prevent  the  base  and  brutal  Democrats  from  crowding 
out  free  American  labor  from  the  Territories  and  incoming 
States  with  the  labor  of  Congo  and  Ashantee  ;  and  laboring 
also  to  get  the  Government  out  of  the  control  of  the  Slave 
Power.  In  a  word,  Liberty  was  fighting  her  battle  with 
Trade,  and  even  the  defeats  of  Liberty  are  victories. 

Add  to  all  that  a  fair  ray  of  hope  and  promise  still  lin 
gered  at  that  period  in  the  air  of  Boston,  cast  from  a  little 
society  of  Socialists,  under  the  leadership  of  William  Henry 


HAEEI^GTON.  .  81 

Banning,  which  had  been  dissolved  about  two  years  before. 
They  had  lit  their  torch  from  the  old  faith  that  Human  Life 
has  its  Science,  discovering  which  we  rear  earth's  Golden  Age. 
It  was  the  old  idea  of  Plato,  Aristotle,  Pythagoras  ;  it  was 
the  dream  of  Campanella  and  More  ;  it  was  the  divine  and 
deathless  purpose  of  Bacon,  and  the  holy  labor  of  Fourier. 
The  Socialists  in  Boston  had  made  a  limited  but  profound 
impression  with  it,  which  had  outlasted  their  dissolution.  The 
light  of  the  torch  still  lived  when  the  torch  itself  was  extin 
guished  ;  and  amidst  the  sordor  and  selfishness  and  cruelty  of 
the  period,  it  showed  that  the  tradition  and  the  promise  of  the 
Good  Time  Coming  were  immortal. 


CHAPTER  II. 

gl 

THE     FENCING    SCHOOL. 

AMONG  other  things  in  Boston  at  that  period  there  was  a  fenc 
ing  school  and  pistol  gallery,  kept  by  an  old  soldier  of  the  First 
Empire,  Monsieur  Hypolite  Bagasse.  The  way  to  it  was  up  a 
long,  narrow  boarded  alley  which  led  out  of  Washington  street, 
ran  straight  for  about  twenty  steps,  and  then  with  the  natural 
disposition  of  every  street,  avenue,  alley,  lane  or  court  in  Boston, 
made  an  effort  to  achieve  the  line  of  beauty  and  of  grace  by  slant 
ing  off  to  the  left,  in  which  bent  it  was  followed  by  the  blind, 
brick  walls,  covered  in  one  spot  with  a  patch  of  theatre 
posters  on  the  left  hand  side  of  it,  and  by  a  large  dingy  old 
brick  building,  preternaturally  full  of  windows,  on  the  right 
hand  side  of  it.  In  this  building  was  the  fencing  school. 

A  large,  long,  dim,  unfinished  interior,  lighted  on  one  side 
only  by  a  row  of  windows  looking  on  the  alley,  clap-boarded 
all  around  on  the  other  sides,  and  with  rafters  overhead.  Cool 
and  dry,  with  a  faint  acrid  smell  of  powder-femoke  pervading 
its  musty  atmosphere.  One  section  of  the  oblong  space,,  to 
the  left  of  the  door,  un windowed,  and  lying  in  complete 

4* 


»2  HARRINGTON. 

shadow.  Three  or  four  square  wooden  posts,  down  the  long 
centre,  supporting  the  raftered  ceiling.  On  the  left  hand, 
under  the  windows,  the  pistol  gallery — a  fenced  lane,  with  a 
target  at  one  end,  and  a  bench,  with  arms  and  ammunition  on 
it,  at  the  other.  Near  this  a  wooden  settee  with  a  tin  can  of 
cheap  claret  wine  upon  it.  Opposite,  hanging  on  the  boarded 
wall  in  the  rear  of  the  pistol  bench,  and  in  the  range  of  two  or 
three  of  the  windows,  rows  of  foils  and  yellow  buckskin  fenc-" 
ing-gloves,  black  wire  masks  for  the  face,  leathern  plastrons 
for  the  breast,  and  a  few  single-sticks  and  blunt  broadswords. 
No  other  furniture,  save  three  or  four  old  chairs,  scattered 
here  and  there  about  the  room. 

It  was  about  half-past  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  the 
twenty-fifth  of  May,  and  Monsieur  Bagasse  was  waiting  for 
pupils  to  arrive.  John  Todd,  a  young  fellow  about  fifteen  or 
sixteen  years  of  age,  was  at  the  bench,  absorbed  in  cleaning 
pistols.  Monsieur  Bagasse  himself,  slowly  shuffling  up  and 
down  in  front  of  the  fencing  implements,  with  a  halt  in  his 
step,  occasioned  by  one  leg  being  shorter  than  the  other,  was 
absently  smoking  a  short  pipe,  which  he  held  to  his  mouth  by 
the  base  of  the  bowl.  He  was  a  figure  fit  for  the  pencil  of 
Callot  or  Gravarni.  Sixty  years  old,  but  not  looking  more  than 
a  weather-beaten  forty  ;  of  Middling  stature,  brawny,  round- 
shouldered,  slightly  bow-legged,  with  large  splay  feet,  cased  in 
shambling  shoes,  with  an  old  cap  on  the  back  of  his  head,  and 
his  coarse,  black  hair,  dashed  with  grey,  showing  under  the 
crescent-shaped  visor  above  his  low,  broad,  corrugated  fore 
head  ;  with  a  dilapidated,  old-fashioned  stock  around  his  neck, 
a  slate-colored  worsted  jacket  buttoned  with  horn  buttons  up 
to  his  throat,  the  sleeves  of  a  red  flannel  shirt  showing  at  his 
wrists,  and  coarse,  dark,  baggy  trowsers  on  his  lower  limbs. 
His  visage  swarthy,  ferruginous,  picturesquely  ugly,  but 
suave  and  kindly,  with  a  constant  expression  of  curious  inter 
rogation  upon  it — an  expression  to  which  the  ever  upturned 
jaw  contributed — to  which  the  mouth,  shaded  by  a  rusty 

black  moustache,  and  always  inquiringly  open,  contributed 

to  which  the  eyes,  one  bleared  and  the  other  bright  as   a 
darkly-glowing  coal,  and  both  surmounted  by  shaggy  eye- 


HARRINGTON.  83 

brows,  contributed — and  which  had  its  contribution  from  the 
horn-rimmed  goggles  worn  half  way  down  on  the  bold  aqui 
line  nose,  above  which  the  eyes  looked  from  the  upturned  face 
as  though  they  were  sighting  at  a  mark  along  a  cannon. 
Wrinkles,  of  course — wrinkles,  and  seams  and  crowsfeet  in 
profusion  ;  two  noticeable  fissures  sloping  deeply  down  the 
cheeks  from  the  big  nostrils  ;  and  on  the  right  cheek  a  dim 
red  scar — the  record  of  a  Frenchman's  last  service  to  his  Em 
peror  at  Waterloo.  Add  to  all  a  general  association  of 
tobacco,  snuf£  and  garlic,  and  you  have  the  idea  of  Monsieur 
Bagasse. 

A  step  on  the  stairs  announcing  the  approach  of  a  visitor, 
Monsieur  Bagasse  halted,  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and 
stood  in  a  habitual  attitude,  his  arms  hung  stiffly,  his  palms 
turned  outward,  his  big  feet  also  turned  outward  and  visible 
from  heel  to  toe,  and  his  face  sighting  with  curious  inquiry  at 
the  door.  The  door  opening  presently,  in  came  a  young  man 
of  seven  or  eight  and  twenty,  rather  boyish-looking  for  his 
years,  modishly,  though  tastefully,  attired,  whose  name  was 
Fernando  Witherlee. 

"  Good  morning,  Monsieur  Bagasse.  How  de  do,"  he  said, 
touching  his  moleskin  hat  with  a  kid-gloved  finger,  as,  smiling 
constrainedly,  and  cringing  into  a  super-elegant  bow,  he  came 
forward.  "  Whew  !  how  you  smell  of  powder  in  here." 

"  Ah  !  good  monning,  good  monning,  Miss'r  Witterlee," 
rejoined  the  old  Frenchman,  politely,  with  a  quick  salute  of  the 
hand. 

Privately,  Monsieur  Bagasse  had  a  supreme  contempt  for 
his  visitor.  Nobody  could  have  guessed  it,  however,  who  saw 
the  bland  suavity  on  his  grotesque  visage,  as  he  curiously 
scanned  the  face  before  him.  A  plump,  smooth,  colorless, 
bilious  face,  handsome  in  its  general  effect,  subtle,  morbid, 
fastidious,  supercilious,  reticent ;  but  with  all  its  traits 
masked  in  a  cool  assumption  of  impassibility.  With  thick, 
brown  hair  gracefully  arranged;  handsome,  expressive  brown 
eyebrows;  brown  eyes,  with  a  restless  glitter  on  them  when 
they  were  in  motion,  and  a  perfect  opaqueness  in  them  when 
they  were  still  ;  lips  which  were  rigid  in  their  contour, 


84  HARRINGTON. 

usually  slightly  parted,  and  which  moved  but  little  in  their 
speech.  Primarily,  the  face  of  an  epicurean  and  a  dilet 
tante  ;  a  face,  too,  that  bespoke  cynicism,  conceit,  arrogance, 
and  indescribable  capacity  of  aggravation  and  insult.  Such 
was  the  face  which  Monsieur  Bagasse  smilingly  and  suavely 
interrogated. 

"  Where  are  our  friends  this  fine  morning  ?"  Witherlee  asked, 
carelessly,  with  an  affected  elegance  of  utterance,  which  was  a 
cross  between  mincing  and  drawling.  "  Not  arrived  yet  ?  The 
lazy  fellows  !  Perfect  sloths,  both  of  them." 

"  Lazee  ?  Oh  no  !  It  is  vair  early  yet,"  returned  Monsieur 
Bagasse.  "  Miss'r  Harrin'ton  an'  Miss'r  Wentwort'  are  not 
lazee  yet,  Miss'r  Witterly." 

"  Oh,  they're  up  early  enough,  I  know,"  replied  the  other, 
"  for  I  met  them  an  hour  ago,  idling  along  Temple  street  with 
some  ladies." 

"  Maybe  zose  ladee  was  zere  sweetheart.  Ah,  Miss'r  Wit- 
terly,  pardon  me,  it  is  not  lazee  for  ze  young  men  to  promenade 
wis  zere  sweetheart — sacre  bleu,  no  !" 

Witherlee  laughed — a  chuckling  laugh,  as  though  his  throat 
was  full  of  turtle. 

"  I  was  struck  with  tjie  contrast,"  he  remarked.  "  Went- 
worth  was  dressed  in  his  dandy  artist  rig — spruce  as  Beau 
Brummel,  and  Harrington  wore  those  superannuated  old  clothes, 
looking  for  all  the  world  as  if  he  had  just  been  let  out  of  the 
watchhouse.  Splendid  girls  they  were  with  too.  Wentworth 
beside  one  of  them  was  like  a  bizarre  creature,  of  some  sort  or 
other,  walking  with  a  princess,  and  Harrington  like  a  strapping 
young  rag-picker  along  side  of  a  queen." 

"  Ah,  zey  is  vair  fine  young  zhentilrnen,"  tranquilly  replied 
Monsieur  Bagasse.  "  Vair  fine." 

Witherlee  made  no  reply,  but  slightly  elevated  his  handsome 
eyebrows  in  expressive  disparagement. 

"  You  know  zose  ladee,  Miss'r  Witterly  ?"  inquired  the  old 
Frenchman. 

"  Oh  yes,  very  well.  '  I  walked  along  with  them  this  morn 
ing.  One  is  a  Miss  Eastman— she  lives  in  Temple  street  with 
her  mother.  Quite  rich.  The  other  is  a  Miss  Ames,  who  is 


HARRINGTON.  85 

visiting  the  Eastmans.     Her  family  are  all  rich.    They  live  at 
Cambridge." 

"  Yair  fine  ladee  ?    Wis  beautee— wis  dollair,  eh  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  indeed.  Yery  much  sought  after  too,  both  of 
them.  With  crowds  of  admirers,  I  assure  you." 

11  Ah,  Miss'r  Witterly,  I  am  so  glad  for  zat.  It  please  me 
vair  mush  that  Miss'r  Harrington  and  Miss'r  Wentwort'  sail 
marry  zose  vair  fine  ladee." 

"  Hoity,  toity,  my  dear  Monsieur  Bagasse,  what  in  the 
world  are  you  thinking  of  ?  Your  pupils  are  not  so  lucky  as 
that  yet.  Wentworth  might  have  a  chance,  for  his  father's 
rich,  and  in  good  standing,  though  I  judge  from  the  way  things 
go  on  lately  that  Miss  Ames  cares  precious  little  for  him.  But 
Harrington — why  he's  as  poor  as  a  church  mouse,  and  doesn't 
move  in  good  society  at  all.  How  Miss  Eastman  tolerates  his 
visits,  I  can't  imagine.  I  suppose  it's  her  kindness  though. 
Seems  to  me  Harrington  mast  have  a  great  deal  of  assurance 
to  visit  her  at  all.  As  for  marrying  her,  why  it's  perfectly 
absurd  !  She'd  as  soon  marry  a  man  out  of  the  poor-house. 
Good  gracious  1  look  at  the  old  coat  the  fellow  wears  !  Why 
the  lady  belongs  to  our  first  society — a  su-pairb  person — per 
fectly  dis-t-a-nguay." 

Monsieur  Bagasse  grinned  broadly,  possibly  with  rage,  pos 
sibly  at  the  affected  drawl  with  which  Witherlee  had  pro 
nounced  the  French  word  distingu£,  and  then  growing  gro> 
tesquely  serious,  burst  forth  in  orotund,  hoarse,  fluent  tones, 
very  politely,  but  with  great  earnestness. 

"  Pardon  me,  Miss'r  Witterly,"  he  said,  "but  why  is  zat  so 
odd  zat  ze  vair  fine  distingue  ladee  sail  lof  Miss'r  Harrin'ton  ? 
Ah,  Miss'r  Witterly,  you  make  one  vair  big  mistake.  You 
zink  ze  pretty  girl  all  so  fond  of  ze  dollair — ze  rank — ze  grand 
posetion,  eh  ?  Bah — no  !  I  tell  you,  no.  Ze  duch-ess — ze 
count-ess — ze  great  vair  fine  ladee — zey  lof  so  offen  ze  wit,  ze 
brave  heart,  ze  gallantree,  ze  goodness  wis  ze  old  coat  over 
him.  Ouf!  Look  now.  Attend.  Was  I  great  vair  fine 
-  ladee,  what  sail  I  do  wis  myself  ?  I  tell  y6u.  I  see  Miss'r 
Harrington  lof  me.  I  make  vair  sure.  Zen  I  say — here,  you 
brave,  good  man,  so  kind,  so  handsome,  so  gallant,  so  like  ze 


86  HAEKINGTON. 

superb  chevalier  of  ze  old  time — look — I  lof  you  !  I  lof  you 
wis  you  old  coat  !  I  lof  you  old  coat,  too,  for  it  covair  you 
so  long.  Come — I  marry  you — you  take  my  fine  house — my 
dollair — you  take  me — all,  for  evair  and  evair.  Sacrebleu, 
Miss'r  Witterly,  zat  is  what  I  say  to  Miss'r  Harrin'ton  was  I 
vair  fine  ladee." 

To  this  outburst,  which  was  delivered  with  great  vivacity 
and  many  shrugs,  grimaces,  and  odd  gesticulations,  Witherlee 
listened  with  opaque  eyes  and  parted  lips,  and  an  expression 
of  perfect  immobility  on  his  colorless,  plump,  morbid  counte 
nance.  At  the  end,  he  lifted  his  expressive  eyebrows, 
slightly  curled  a  contumelious  nose,  and  curved  a  supercilious 
lip,  with  an  insolence  at  once  so  delicate  and  so  intense,  that 
Monsieur  Bagasse,  with  the  most  suave  smile  again  on  his 
uncouth  visage,  felt  a  strong  desire  to  deal  him  a  thumping 
French  kick  under  the  chin. 

"  I  have  no  doubt,  my  dear  Monsieur  Bagasse,"  was  the 
rejoinder  after  a  pause,  "  that  you  would  do  as  you  say  if 
you  were  the  lady  in  question.  But  you're  not,  you  know, 
which  makes  the  difference.  However,  I  won't  discuss  the 
point  with  you.  Harrington  is  not  quite  so  great  a  fool,  I 
hope,  as  to  expect  any  such  good  fortune.  As  for  Wentworth, 
if  you  could  have  seen  his  face  this  morning  when  Emily — that 
is  Miss  Ames — gave  Harrington  a  bunch  of  violets,  you 
would  have  thought  that  his  hopes,  like  his  prospects,  were 
rather  down." 

"  Eh,  what  was  zat  ?"  inquired  the  old  Frenchman,  curiously. 

"  Why  you  see,"  replied  Witherlee,  with  .a  spirting  chuckle 
at  the  remembrance,  "  after  the  walk  we  were  in  the  parlor, 
and  Miss  Ames  went  into  the  conservatory  and  came  back 
with  a  little  bunch  of  violets.  She  was  at  a  table  in  the 
further  end  of  the  room,  dividing  the  violets  into  two  nosegays, 
and,  just  for  a  joke,  I  went  over  to  her  and  whispered  that 
Wentworth  would  be  delighted  to  receive  a  true-love  posy 
from  her.  I  don't  know  what  made  her  color,  but  she  did,  and 
instantly  tied  up  all  the  flowers  in  one  nosegay,  with  a  piqued 
air,  and  went  over  to  the  two  fellows.  You  should  have  seen 
Wentworth's  mortified  air  when  she  sailed  past  him,  and  gave 


HARBINGTON.  87 

them  to  Harrington.  He  walked  across  the  room,  trying  to 
look  indifferent,  but  it  was  no  go.  Miss  Eastman  went  out 
and  came  back  with  another  bunch  of  violets  which  she  gave 
him  with  her  most  gracious  manner,  but  I  guess  she  couldn't 
console  him  for  that  rebuff.  He  made  his  adieux  to  Miss 
Ames  stiffly  enough,  though  he  was  extra  cordial  to  Miss 
Eastman,  at  which  Miss  Ames  looked  colder  than  ever.  Alto 
gether,  for  a  little  matter,  it  played  the  deuce  with  Wentworth 
everyway." 

"  Pardon  me,  Miss'r  Witterly — ex-cuse  me,  sir,  please," 
interposed  Monsieur  Bagasse,  with  immense  civility  of  manner, 
and  deprecating  grimaces  :  "  Zat  was  not  well — sacrebleu,  no. 
You  make  zat  mischeef — ex-cuse  me — you  vex  zat  ladee  and 
you  wound  Miss'r  Wentwort'  wis  you  littel  gay  talk.  Ah, 
you  was  not  right — no  indeed.  You  make  maybe  littel  miff 
wis  zose  young  peeples — it  grow,  grow,  grow  evair  so  big  maybe, 
and  zey  nevair,  nevair,  come  back  togezzer.  You  duty  sail 
be  to  make  ze  amende  honorable — ex-plain — yes  indeed, 
Miss'r  Witterly.  You  tell  Miss'r  Wentwort'  what  you  say — 
zen  he  know,  zen  it  is  again  right." 

"  Not  at  all,"  replied  the  mischief-maker.  "  I  don't  think 
BO.  I  only  made  a  playful  remark.  If  Miss  Ames  chose  to 
act  as  she  did,  that  is  not  my  affair.  I  said  all  I  could  to 
console  Wentworth.  I  told  him  I  was  truly  sorry  that  Miss 
Ames  had  treated  him  so  rudely — very  sorry  indeed." 

"  Mille  tonnerre  /"  exclaimed  the  Frenchman,  grinning  and 
grimacing  desperately:  "you  say  zat  to  Miss'r  Wentwort' !" 

"Of  course  I  said  it,"  coolly  replied  With erlee.  "What 
less  could  I  say  ?  It  didn't  console  him  much,  though.  He 
tried  to  look  indifferent,  thanked  me  coolly  enough,  and  re 
marked  that  it  was  of  no  consequence." 

Monsieur  Bagasse  gave  a  sort  of  snort,  still  grinning  and 
grimacing.  The  whole  proceeding  was  quite  in  Fernando 
Witherlee's  style.  A  piece  of  boyish  malice,  perpetrated  with 
mischievously  subtle  talent — with  an  expressiveness  of  manner 
which  had  injected  the  words  and  action  with  a  wicked  meaning 
not  purely  their  own;  afterwards  foolishly  tattled  of,  and 
defended  with  pig-headed  perversity. 


88  HARRINGTON. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  the  thing  happened,"  resumed  Witherlee, 
in  a  cool,  sympathizing,  soliloquizing  tone,  looking,  meanwhile, 
at  the  wall  with  his  opaquest  gaze.  "  And  I'm  still  more 
sorry  to  notice  that  Wentworth  and  Miss  Ames  are  not  so 
intimate  as  they  were  a  short  time  ago.  It  really  seems  as  if 
they  were  becoming  estranged.  It's  odd  to  see  how  attentive 
Wentworth  is  lately  to  Miss  Eastman,  though  I'm  sure  he 
only  cares  for  her  as  a  friend.  Then  Miss  Ames,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  very  agreeable  to  Harrington,  which  galls  Wentworth, 
I  know.  Ton  my  word,  I  believe  he  is  getting  jealous  of 
Harrington,  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  those  two  fellows  had  a 
falling  out  presently.  It's  dreadfully  absurd  of  Wentworth, 
for  I'm  sure  that  if  Harrington  cares  for  either  of  them,  it's 
Miss  Eastman." 

The  case  was  pretty  much  as  Witherlee  had  stated  it,  but 
the  explanation  was,  that  he  had  been  lifting  his  eyebrows 
and  modulating  his  tones  and  dropping  his  intangible  innuendoes 
to  Miss  Ames  with  regard  to  Weutworth,  and  the  result  was, 
that  she  had  become  filled  with  indeterminate  suspicion  and 
distrust  of  her  lover,  and  had  almost  alienated  him  from  her 
by  her  manner  toward  him. 

"  Miss'r  Witterly,  you  are  ze  friend  of  zose  young  men," 
placidly  observed  Monsieur  Bagasse.  "  See,  now,  suppose  you 
tell  Miss'r  Wentwortf  zat  he  sail  not  be  jalous  of  Miss'r  Har- 
rin'ton — zat  Miss'r  Harrin'ton  haf  not  lof  Mees  Ame  nevair. 
Zen  you  make  zem  fine  young  zhentilmen  still  good  friend  of 
ze  ozzer.  You  say  zat  now  to  Miss'r  WentwortV 

"  Dear  me,  no;  that  wouldn't  do  at  all,"  was  the  reply. 
"  It's  not  my  business,  you  know,  and  I  might  only  make 
trouble.  Better  let  them  alone.  It'll  all  come  right,  I  guess. 
Wentworth's  in  no  danger  from  our  negro-worshipping  friend, 
and  I  guess  the  best  policy  in  this  case,  like  the  national  policy 
in  regard  to  Kossuth,  will  be  non-intervention." 

"  Neeger-worship  friend  ?  Who  is  zat  you  mean  ?"  inquired 
Monsieur  Bagasse,  with  grotesque  perplexity. 

Witherlee  laughed  his  turtle-husky  chuckle. 

"I  was  only  joking,"  he  returned;  "  I  meant  Harrington. 
You  know  he's  a  furious  Abolitionist." 


HARRINGTON.  89 

"  Ah,  Miss'r  Witterly,"  said  the  old  Frenchman,  with  a 
deprecating  shrug  and  grimace,  "  zat  is  not  good  fon.  Miss'r 
Harrington  is  vair  fine  young  zhentilman.  If  he  worsheep  ze 
neeger,  pardieu,  Hypolite  Bagasse  worsheep  ze  neeger  wis 
him.  Zat  is  only  what  you  call  ze  attachment  zoo  libertee.  Ah, 
Miss'r  Witterly,  zat  Miss'r  Harrin'ton,  so  kind,  so  strong,  so 
good,  he  is  friend  of  ze  neeger,  of  ze  Iris'man,  of  ze  French 
man,  of  ze  poor  fellow,  of -ze  littel  child,  of  ze  small  fly  on  ze 
window,  of-  ze  vair  old  devail  himself,  of  evairybody.  See, 
now.  Attend.  I  was  seek — vair  seek  wis  fever  in  ze  win 
ter.  TSTobody  come  to  me — of  my  pupeel  not  one.  Zat 
Miss'r  Harrin'ton  he  come.  He  find  John  Todd,  and  inquire 
where  I  live,  and  he  come.  He  breeng  ze  doctor — he  breeng 
Miss'r  Wentwort',  he  breeng  ze  littel  jellee,  ze  grape,  all  zem 
littel  ting  zat  he  say  ze  vair  fine  ladee  give  him  for  ze  poor  old 
vair  seek  Bagasse.  Sacrebleu,  he  nurse  me  ;  he  sit  up  wis  me 
in  ze  night  when  my  wife  tire  herself  out  wis  me,  and  go  sleep  ; 
he  get  me  well,  and  zen  he  go  zoo  ze  pupeel  and  make  ze  sub- 
scripshcon  for  zere  old  fencing-mastair.  Feefty  dollair — dam  ! 
it  is  sub-lime  !  Ze  wolf  he  cut  off  from  ze  door  of  Bagasse  so 
queek  as  his  dam  leg  wtll  trot !  Zen  Miss'r  Harrin'ton  he  ad 
vise  Madame  Bagasse  zoo  keep  ze  boarding-house.  Ah  !  it  is 
grand.  She  accept — ze  boardair  come — ze  French,  ze  Italian, 
ze  German  man  zey  board  wis  me.  Hah  !  zat  Miss'r  Harrin' 
ton  he  set  me  up  on  my  leg,  wis  my  heart  big  wis  gratitude. 
You  make  mock  of  zat  old  coat,  Miss'r  Witterly.  Bah  !  He 
wear  zat  old  coat  zat  so  many  poor  devail  sail  wear  any  coat 
at  all.  Sacrebleu !  was  I  ze  great  Nap-oleon,  I  sail  put  ze 
grand  cross  of  ze  Legion — ze  Legion  d'Honneur — on  ze  breast 
of  zat  old  coat  for  evair." 

There  was  such  emotion  in  the  deep,  hoarse  rolling  tones — 
such  a  dark  glow  on  the  grotesque,  brown,  wrinkled  visage — 
such  fire  in  the  one  eye  under  its  shaggy  eyebrow — such  mar 
tial  energy  in  the  uncouth,  shabby  figure,  that  Witherlee  felt 
the  danger  of  pursuing  any  further  his  detraction  of  Harring 
ton.  At  the  same  time,  he  felt  an  envious  itching  to  continue 
it.  To  hear  anybody  or  anything  praised,  and  not  be  roused 
to  oppositiveness,- was  not  in  the  organization  of  Fernando 


90  HARRINGTON. 

Witherlee.  A  peculiarly  aggravating  rejoinder  was  in  his 
mind,  and  the  temptation  to  utter  it  was  prodigious.  While 
he  hesitated  between  the  temptation  and  the  imminent  pros 
pect  of  having  a  quarrel  on  his  hands  with  Monsieur  Bagasse, 
steps  and  loud  talking  on  the  stairs,  announcing  the  approach 
of  pupils,  at  once  decided  and  relieved  him,  and  he  sauntered 
away  to  a  chair,  sinking  into  which  and  tilting  it  back  against 
the  wall,  he  proceeded  to  select,  light  and  smoke  a  cigar. 


CHAPTER    III. 

QUARTE    A'ND    TIERCE. 

MONSIEUR  BAGASSE,  meanwhile,  resuming  his  equanimity, 
stood  sighting  beyond  the  muzzle  of  an  invisible  cannon,  as  if 
the  door  was  the  mark,  looking  very  much  like  some  slovenly, 
awkward  old  artilleryman,  of  an  uncouth  pattern,  and  not  at 
all  like  a  fencing-master.  The  door  fle^  open  presently  with  a 
bang,  letting  in  two  smart  young  men  not  yet  out  of  their 
teens,  who  swaggered  forward  with  a  very  rakish,  gasconading 
air.  Milk  street  clerks — Fisk  and  Palmer  by  name — snobbish 
in  dress  and  rude  in  manners. 

"  Bon  swor,  Monsoor,"  said  Palmer,  loud  and  patronizing. 
This  address,  couched  in  a  purely  domestic  French,  was 
intended  both  as  an  elegant  recognition  of  the  nationality  of 
Monsieur  Bagasse,  and  as  a  way  of  bidding  him  good  morn 
ing.  The  old  man,  who  with  ready  politeness  had  silently 
saluted  the  new  comers  upon  their  entrance,  surveyed  the 
speaker  over  the  rims  of  his  round  goggles,  with  open  mouth, 
and  an  odd  smile  on  his  upturned  visage. 

"  Ha,  Miss'r  Pammer,"  he  said  with  vivacity,  "  you  zink  ze 
day  is  gone,  eh  ?" 

Palmer,  who  was  taking  off  his  coat,  stopped  and  stared. 

Cil  don't  understand  you,  Mousoor,"  he  rejoined  ;  "Pm 
going  to  take  my  lesson." 


HARRINGTON.  91 

"  Hah  !  Zat  is  well,"  said  tlie  old  man.  "  But  you  say, 
bon  soir,  Miss'r  Pammer.  Zat  is,  good  night.  You  intend 
Ion  jour  ;  zat  is,  good  day." 

Palmer,  seeing  the  grotesque,  good-natured  face  of  the 
fencing-master  smiling  at  him,  and  beginning  to  comprehend 
what  his  domestic  French  had  meant,  grinned  rather  foolishly, 
^and  turned  off.  His  companion,  who  stood  in  his  shirt 
sleeves  with  a  wire-mask  already  on  his  face,  burst  into  a  rude 
guffaw  at  the  blunder,  and  slapped  him  on  the  .back  with  a 
fencing-glove.  It  may  be  mentioned  here  that  these  young 
cubs,  in  process  of  getting  their  taste  for  the  wolfs  milk  of 
trade,  had  come  upon  the  heady  wine  of  Dumas'  "  Three 
Guardsmen" — which  admirable  romance  had  so  intoxicated 
their  ardent  fancy  with  excited  day-dreams  of  D'Artagnan 
and  Porthos,  that,  filled  with  the  spirit  of  the  sword,  they 
had  resolved  to  take  fencing-lessons  of  Monsieur  Bagasse. 
This  practical  recognition  of  the  literary  genius  of  the  great 
French  mulatto,  was  one  incident  in  their  joint  career. 
Another,  not  so  creditable,  was  their  participation  in  a  mob 
of  clerks  and  salesmen,  who  not  long  before  had  brawled  down 
an  orator  of  Dumas'  own  color — Frederick  Douglass— at  the 
Thompson  meeting  in  Faneuil  Hall.  It  is  to  be  feared  that 
the  gallant  Alexandre  himself  would  have  fared  no  better  at 
their  hands,  or  their  employers'  either,  had  he  ever  been  fool 
enough  to  leave  the  democratic  streets  of  Paris,  for  the  color- 
phobic  pavements  of  Boston. 

Monsieur  Bagasse  put  away  his  pipe  and  spectacles,  shuffled 
across  the  room  to  shut  the  door  which  the  cubs  had  left  open, 
and  returning  took  down  a  foil  and  glove  to  give  the  lesson. 
Fisk  was  buckling  on  Palmer's  plastron,  as  the  leathern  breast 
plate  is  called,  an  operation  rather  hindered  by  his  sense  of  the 
supercilious  smile  with  which  Witherlee  regarded  his  efforts 
from  his  chair  against  the  wall,  as  well  as  by  the  circumstance 
of  his  having  his  face  incased  in  the  wire  mask,  and  his  arms 
hampered  by  the  heavy  leather  gloves  which  he  was  holding 
with  his  elbows  against  his  sides.  While  Monsieur  Bagasse 
waited,  standing  in  an  awkward  drooping  posture,  with  the  foil  in 
his  gloved  hand,  a  firm  step  was  heard  bounding  up  the  stairs, 


92  HARRINGTON. 

the  door  flew  open,  and,  with  a  light,  springing  tread,  a  young 
man,  flushed  and  smiling,  and  so  handsome  that  any  one  would 
have  turned  to  look  at  him,  darted  in,  bringing  with  him  a 
warm  gust  of  fragrance  into  the  chill  musty  pallor  of  the  room. 
An  odd,  fond  smile  shot  at  once  to  the  visage  of  the  fencing- 
master. 

"  Ha,  good  monning,  good  monning,  Missr  Wentwort',"  he* 
chirruped,  returning  with  a  military  salute  the  quick  gesture  of 
gay  cordiality  the  young  man  made  on  entering.  "  How  you 
feel  to-day  ?" 

"  Capital !  most  potent,  grave  and  reverend  seignior  !  My 
very  noble  and  approved  good  fencing-master,  how  are  you  ? 
Hallo,  Fernando,"  his  eye  catching  sight  of  the  equably-smok 
ing  Witherlee  :  "  here  you  are  again,  old  fellow  ?" 

"  Just  so,  Heliogabalus,"  coolly  drawled  the  bilious-cynical 
youth  from  his  chair.  "  Say,  Heliogabalus — do  you  know  how 
to  get  that  smell  out  of  your  clothes  ?  Bury  'em  I" 

There  was  a  decided  flavor  of  verjuice  in  the  manner  of 
Witherlee,  as  he  let  fly  this  borrowed  jest  at  the  perfumed 
raiment  of  the  other.  Wentworth,  though  he  took  it  as  a 
jest,  could  not  help  wincing  a  little  at  it,  and  was  made  even 
more  uncomfortable  at  the  application  to  him  of  the  name  of 
one  of  the  most  bestial  of  the  Roman  Emperors. 

"Well,  Fernando,"  he  returned  with  a  smile,  "if  ever  there 
was  a  prickly  cactus,  you're  one.  You're  a  perfect  Diogenes. 
Get  a  tub,  Fernando,  do." 

"  Quarte  and  tierce,  Heliogabalus,"  responded  the  cool  Fer 
nando,  with  his  turtle-husky  chuckle. 

Wentworth  turned  .away,  and  met  the  smiling  look  of  ad 
miration  and  fondness  on  the  upturned  visage  of  the  old  man- 
at-arms.  A  handsome  young  fellow,  in  the  very  flower  of 
youth  and  May,  elegantly  dressed — who  could  look  at  him 
without  admiration  and  fondness  ?  An  artist — one  could 
have  told  that  at  the  first  glance.  Long  auburn  locks  curled 
in  a  thick  cluster  under  his  dark  Rubens  hat,  and  around  his 
florid  cheeks.  He  had  a  gay,  electric,  passionate  face  ;  bright 
blue  eyes  ;  a  fair  complexion  ;  red  lips,  shaded  by  a  light 
brown  moustache  coquettishly  curled  up  at  the  ends,  and  quick 


HAEEINGTON.  98 

to  curve  iDto  a  proud,  brilliant  smile.  His  figure  was  com 
pact,  well-knit,  shapely,  of  middle-height,  and,  seeming  taller 
than  it  was  by  force  of  its  gallant  carriage.  The  quality  of 
his  face  was  in  his  voice — so  quick,  lively,  clear  and  ringing. 

"  Ah,  Missr  Wentwort',"  said  the  old  man,  in  hoarse  tones, 
which  were  yet  soft  and  facile,  "you  bring  me  back  ever  so 
far — you  look  so  gay  1  You  look  as  I  sail  feel  wis  my  young 
blood  tirty,  tirty-five  years  ago.  We  marsh  zen  wis  ze  great 
Kap-oleon  dis  mont',  all  so  proud,  so  gallant,  for  zat  dam 
Waterloo.  Hah  !  I  feel  zen  jus'  like  you.  So  young — so 
gay  !  Wis  my  littel  flower  like  zat  at  my  bouton — ze  flower 
zat  ze  pretty  girl  haf  give  me.  Jus'  so." 

He  touched  a  nosegay  of  violets  in  the  young  man's  button 
hole  with  the  hilt  of  the  foil  as  he  spoke.  Wentworth  laughed 
lightly,  taking  out  the  nosegay. 

"Jupiter  1  Bagasse,"  he  cried,  "  you  shall  have  the  flowers 
for  the  sake  of  the  memory.  What  are  you  grinning  at,  Fer 
nando  I"  This  to  Witherlee,  whose  cynical  grin  changed  into 
a  cool  lift  of  the  eyebrows.  "  Now,  Bagasse,"  resumed  Went 
worth,  "  I'll  give  them  to  you  since  they  remind  you  of  old 
times.  Here,  let  me  fix  them  in  your  jacket.  There  now — 
guard  them  well  against  every  foil.  Yiolets,  you  know,  Mon 
sieur  Bagasse  !  Worn  in  remembrance  of  Corporal  Yiolet — 
the  great  little  corporal  !" 

The  old  man  bowed  low,  with  the  violets  on  his  breast. 
With  the  rush  of  thrilling  souvenirs  which  the  pet  name  of  the 
beloved  Emperor  revived,  a  dark  glow  came  to  his  rugged 
visage,  and  the  one  bright  eye  grew  suddenly  dim,  leaving  the 
face  blind.  Wentworth  saw  that  he  was  touched,  and  with  a 
quick  regret  that  he  had  brought  a  tear  to  the  old  heart, 
turned  away,  humming  an  air. 

"  But  where's  Harrington,  I  wonder  ?"  he  burst  out,  whirl 
ing  around  again.  "  He  said  he'd  be  here  before  me." 

"  He  will  come  }  retty  soon,  I  zink,  Missr  Wentwort'," 
replied  Monsieur  Bagasse.  "You  haf  seen  him  dis  morn 
ing  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  found  him,  as  usual,  pegging  away  at  the 
books,  and  we  walked  out  together.  Afterward  we  went 


94  HAKEINGTON. 

with  him,  Witherlee  and  I,  to  his  room,  and  then  started  out 
again  to  come  here.  He  left  us  on  the  way,  saying  he'd  be 
here  before  us,  and  I  left  Witherlee  on  the  way,  saying  I'd 
be  here  before  him.  Two  promises  of  pie-crust,  those.  I'll 
bet  a  denier,  Fernando,  that  dog  has  something  to  do  with 
his  absence,"  and  the  young  artist  laughed. 

"  No  doubt,"  returned  Witherlee,  smoking,  with  a  sarcastic 
smile.  "  Perhaps  he's  commencing  his  education — developing, 
on  Kant's  principle,  all  the  perfection  of  which  the  doggish 
nature  is  capable." 

"  Dog?"  inquired  Monsieur  Bagasse,  curiously. 

"  Oh,  it's  a  dog  we  passed  this  morning,"  explained  Weiit- 
worth;  "a  miserable  old  vagabond  white  cur,  with  just  about 
life  enough  in  him  to  crawl.  Some  Irish  and  negro  boys  were 
lugging  the  poor  old  -devil  along  by  the  ears  and  tail,  and 
whacking  him  with  sticks,  as  we  came  along,  and  Harrington, 
of  course,  stopped  to  order  them  off." 

"Bright  in  Harrington,"  .put  in  Witherlee,  with  a  sneer; 
"  as  if  they  wouldn't  be  at  him  again  before  we'd  gone  twenty 
yards  1" 

"  Yes,  by  Jupiter,  but  before  we  had  gone  twenty  yards, 
Fernando,  you  and  I  went  into  the  shop,  you  know,  where 
you  bought  the  cigars,  and  it  was  there  that  Harrington  said 
he  had  to  go  back  to  the  house  for  something,  and  made  off 
with  himself.  It  never  occurred  to  me  till  now — but  I'll  bet 
a  franc  he  went  back  to  those  boys  !" 

He  burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter  at  the  idea. 

"  I'd  give  something  to  know  what  Harrington  did  with 
the  old  cur,"  he  said  in  a  moment. 

"  Took  him  off  to  the  butcher's  perhaps,  and  sold  him  for 
vSausages,"  suggested  Witherlee. 

"  Ah,  Missr  Wentwort',"  said  the  old  man^  grotesquely 
serious,  "you  friend,  Missr  Harrin'ton,  is  vair  fine,  vair  mush 
humane,  vair  fine  zhentilman.  I  feel  vair  mush  warm  to 
him." 

"  Rather  too  much  of  the  Don  Quixote  order,  though," 
drawled  Witherlee,  affectedly,  giving  the  Spanish  pronunciation 
to  the  '  Don  Quixote '  and  calling  it  Don  Kehoty. 


HAEEINGTON.  95 

"0  you  be  hanged,  Fernando,"  burst  in  Wentworth. 
"  He's  no  more  like  Don  Kehoty,  as  you  call  it,  than  you're 
like  Sancho  Panza.  He's  the  grandest  fellow  that  ever  lived, 
and  makes  me  ashamed  of  myself  every  day  of  my  life.  Hallo, 
I  guess  he's  coming." 

Witherlee,  biliously  pale  with  spite  at  the  double  in 
jury  of  his  pronunciation  of  "Don  Quixote"  having  been 
mimicked,  and  Harrington  having  been  so  warmly  praised, 
busied  himself  with  adjusting  the  loosened  skin  of  his  cigar, 
while  Monsieur  Bagasse  and  Wentworth  turned  to  the  door, 
which  voices  and  trampling  feet  were  nearing.  Presently 
the  door  opened  and  a  group  of  seven  or  eight  poured 
in  with  a  confusion  of  salutations.  Four  or  five  of  them  were 
young  mercantiloes,  and  instantly  swarmed  around  Fisk  and 
Palmer,  who  were  still  fussing  over  the  plastron.  One  was  a 
heavy,  taciturn  man — a  Pennsylvania  Dutchman — with  blue, 
fishy  e}  es,  a  sodden  face  and  a  yellow  beard.  His  name  was 
Whilt,  and  he  kept  a  wine-cellar,  and  boarded  with  Monsieur 
Bagasse.  With  him  was  another  of  the  fencing-master's  board 
ers — a  tall,  slender,  handsome,  swaggering  young  man,  half- 
soldier,  half-coxcomb  in  his  bearing,  with  bright  dark  eyes,  bril 
liant  color,  long  black  hair,  well  oiled  and  curled,  and  a  long, 
slim,  black  moustache,  shaved  into  two  sections,  and  clinging 
to  his  upper  lip,  and  curving  around  his  moist,  scarlet  mouth, 
like  two  flaccid  leeches.  He  was  fancifully  clad  in  bright  blue, 
tight-fitting  trowsers,  a  short,  rakish  coat,  gay  vest  and  necker 
chief,  wore  his  falling  collar  open  at  the  throat,  and  had  a  Kos- 
suth  hat,  with  a  black  plume,  set  smartly  on  his  head.  This 
was  Captain  Yukovich,  a  young  Hungarian  oflBcer,  who. had 
come  over  in  the  train  of  Kossuth.  Though  it  was  only  eight 
o'clock,  he  and  Whilt  had  a  strong  smell  of  Rhine  wine  about 
them,  which  they  diffused  through  the  room  upon  entering. 

"  How  are  you,  Whilt,"  said  Wentworth,  carelessly  nodding. 
"  Captain,  how  are  you  ?  I  thought  you  had  gone  on  to  New 
York  with  Kossuth." 

Wentworth  had  the  Kossuth  furor,  prevalent  about  that 
time,  and  saluted  Yukovich  with  a  touch  of  enthusiasm. 

"  No,"  responded  the  Hungarian,  in  a  soft  voice,  conceitedly 


96  HARRINGTON. 

fingering  his  moustache,  and  swaying  on  his  shapely  legs  as  he 
spoke.  "No,  I  stays.  Se  Gofernor  go  on,  an'  I  stays  back. 
I  sink  to  keep  cigar  shop  in  Bossoii  pretty  soon.  So  I  stays. 
Goot  tay,  Mossieu  Bagasse.  How  you  feel  ?" 

He  begun  to  talk  in  French  to  the  fencing-master,  and 
Wentworth,  full  of  fiery  sentiment  for  liberty  and  Hungary, 
moved  away  to  the  foils,  humming  the  Marseillaise.  Presently, 
Palmer  and  Fisk  were  ready,  and  Monsieur  Bagasse,  after 
much  preliminary  effort  to  get  Palmer  into  strict  position, 
began  to  give  him  his  lesson. 

Both  Witherlee  and  Wentworth  were  very  sensitive  to  all 
forms  of  artistic  beauty,  and  they  now  saw,  with  strange 
pleasure,  as  they  had  often  seen  before,  the  wonderful  trans 
formation  of  the  fencing-master's  awkward,  sloven  figure.  Look 
ing  at  him  in  his  ordinary  aspect,  nobody  would  ever  have 
imagined  that  he  was  cut  out  for  a  pillar  of  the  school  of  arms. 
But  now,  as  he  threw  himself  into  the  noble  attitude  of  the 
exercise,  every  deformity  seemed  suddenly  to  have  dropped 
from  his  face  and  figure,  and  vanished.  The  head  erect  and 
proud — the  lit  face  turned  square  in  rugged,  grand  repose,  with 
the  visor  of  the  old  cap  looking  now  like  the  raised  visor  of  a 
helmet — the  one  eye  firm  and  jewel-bright,  fixed  on  his  ad 
versary's — the  left  arm  thrown  up  and  out  behind  in  easy 
balance — the  body  set  in  perfect  poise  on  legs  as  strong  as 
iron,  as  flexible  as  steel — and  the  lithe  foil  gently  playing  from 
the  extended  ease  of  his  right  arm  over  the  stiff  guard  of  his 
antagonist,  like  a  line  of  living  light — so,  with  every  trait  and 
outline  of  his  figure  blended  into  an  indescribable  ensemble,  he 
stood,  an  image  of  martial  grace,  superb  and  invincible.  For 
one  instant,  the  two  young  men  drank  in  with  eager  eyes  the 
beauty  of  that  military  statue — the  next,  Palmer's  blade  lunged 
in  swift  and  stiff — was  parried  wide  aside  with  a  light,  almost 
imperceptible,  deft  motion,  and  a  flashing  clash — and  the  figure 
of  Bagasse  had  changed  into  another  statue  of  martial  gran 
deur,  the  left  arm  down  aslope  with  the  left  leg,  the  body 
heaved  forward  on  the  bent  right  knee,  the  right  arm  up  and 
out  in  strong  extension,  and  the  foil,  a  gleaming  curve  of  steel, 
with  its  buttoned  point  on  the  breast  of  the  adversary. 


HARRINGTON.  97 

Only  a  second,  and  while  murmurs  of  applause  ran  round, 
the  first  position  was  resumed. 

"  You  see  now,  Miss'r  Pammer,"  politely  said  the  fencing- 
master,  breaking  the  spell,  "I  hit  you  zen,  be-cause  you  longe 
off  you  guard.  Now  see — I  show  you  how." 

He  dropped  his  point,  and  explained  to  Palmer  where  he 
had  done  wrong,  showing  him  with  his  own  foil  the  way  the 
pass  should  have  been  made.  Palmer  promised  to  remember, 
and  the  lesson  went  on. 

Presently,  while  they  were  on  guard,  Palmer  was  wrong 
again — this  time  in  his  position.  Bagasse,  smiling  politely, 
lowered  his  point  ;  whereat,  Palmer,  with  immense  haste, 
lunged  in,  and  triumphantly  bent  his  foil  on  the  breast  of  the 
fencing-master,  who,  of  course,  made  no  effort  to  ward.  The 
young  mercantiloes,  delighted  with  this  evidence  of  their  friend's 
proficiency,  set  up  a  cry  of  bravo.  Witherlee  sneered  to 
himself,  and  Wentworth  laughed  and  exchanged  glances  with 
the  surprised  Hungarian,  and  the  imperturbable  Whilt.  As 
for  Monsieur  Bagasse,  her  stood,  with  upturned  visage,  smiling 
with  grotesque  placidity,  then  made  a  grimace,  and  limping 
off  to  the  claret-can,  gulped  a  mouthful,  and  came  hurrying 
back.  Palmer  instantly  threw  himself  on  guard,  thrilling  with 
vanity,  and  confident  that  he  was  getting  ahead  of  his  fencing- 
master. 

"  See,  now,  Missr  Pammer,"  said  the  old  man,  with  great 
vivacity,  smiling  good-naturedly  as  he  spoke  ;  "  you  parry, 
now — it  is  simple  quarte  and  tierce — vair,  vair  easy.  Hey, 
now  !  Hey,  now  !  Hey,  now  !  Hey,  now  !  ,Four." 

Quietly,  at  every  exclamation,  Monsieur  Bagasse,  without 
effort,  bent  his  foil  almost  double  on  the  breast  of  his  antago 
nist.  Palmer  could  no  more  parry  the  deft  lunges  than  he 
could  fly.  Bagasse  stood  grinning  good-naturedly  at  him,  and 
lowered  his  point.  Palmer  instantly  made  a  desperate  lunge 
at  the  unguarded  breast,  and  the  same  instant  found  that 
his  foil  had  flown  out  of  his  hand,  and  that  the  blade  of 
Bagasse  was  resting  in  a  firm  curve  on  his  bosom. 

All  present,  Palmer  included,  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter. 
All  but  the  master,  who  stood  silent,  with  his  curious,  good- 

5 


98  HARPJNGTON. 

natnred  smile  on  his  upturned  visage.  It  was  quite  plain  to 
the  pupil  now,  that  he  could  not  touch  Monsieur  Bagasse  on  or 
off  guard,  unless  the  latter  chose  to  let  him. 

Suddenly,  like  a  light  magnetic  shock,  a  silence  fell  upon  the 
uproarious  mirth,  as  with  a  surprised  and  startled  feeling,  all 
present  recognized  a  new  figure,  serene  in  youthful  majesty, 
standing  quietly  at  a  little  distance  near  them,  in  the  full  light 
of  the  windows.  It  was  Harrington.  They  all  knew  him,  but 
somehow  the  unexpectedness  of  his  appearance  gave  him  the 
momentary  effect  of  a  stranger.  He  was  a  young  man  of  about 
twenty-five,  tall  and  stalwart,,  and  of  regnant  and  martial  bear 
ing.  His  face,  looking  out  from  under  a  black  slouched  felt  hat, 
was  long  and  bearded,  singularly  open  and  noble  in  its  charac 
ter,  firm,  calm-eyed,  straight-featured,  broad-nostrilled,  and  mas 
culine,  but  very  pale.  The  beard  was  light-brown,  and  the  hair, 
chestnut  in  color,  and  darker  than  the  beard,  curled  closely,  and 
was  worn  somewhat  long.  A  loose,  dark  sack,  with  large 
sleeves,  buttoned  with  a  single  button  at  the  throat,  showed  the 
spread  of  his  chest,  and  added  to  the  commanding  grace  of  his 
figure.  This  was  the  coat  which  had  been  so  opprobriously 
celebrated  by  the  esthetic  Witherlee.  It  was  an  old  coat  cer 
tainly,  but  it  was  not  the  less  a  well-chosen  and  graceful  gar 
ment,  and  it  is  questionable  whether  if  it  had  hung  in  tatters,  it 
would  have  diminished  the  effect  of  a  presence  in  contrast  with 
which  the  others  seemed  common-pla,ce  and  inferior.  Wither 
lee  himself,  set  in  comparison  with  Harrington,  looked  unmanly 
and  contemptibly  genteel.  Whilt  was  nobody,  Yukovich  a  sim 
pering  fop,  the  mercantiloes  simple  snobs.  Even  the  handsome 
and  gallant  Went  worth  seemed  of  a  lower  order  beside  him, 
and  Bagasse,  in  his  uncouth  and  shabby  grotesqueness,  though 
not  degraded  by  the  contrast,  was  so  removed  by  his  essential 
unlikeness,  as  to  be  out  of  comparison  altogether. 

Wentworth  was  the  first  to  recover  from  the  momentary 
ghostly  trance  into  which  they  had  all  dropped  on  discovering 
Harrington  in  the  room. 

"  Jupiter  Tonans  !"  he  exclaimed  :  "  How — when — where — 
in  what  manner  did  you  arrive,  Harrington  !" 

"  Well,"  returned  Harrington  in  a  sweet  and  cordial  bari- 


HARRINGTON.  \)\) 

tone  voice,  affably  saluting  the  company,  "I  didn't  exactly 
step  out  from  behind  the  air,  though  you  all  look  as  if  you 
thought  so.  I  came  in  just  now  prosaically  at  the  door — not 
stealthily  either,  for  John  Todd,  there,  both  heard  and  saw  me. 
But  you  were  all  in  such  a  tempest  of  merriment  that  no  one 
but  Johnny  noticed  me.  Come — go  on  with  the  fun.  Tell 
me  what  it's  all  about,  that  I  may  laugh  too." 

"  0,  I  just  disarmed  Monsoor — that's  all,"  said  Palmer. 

This  quip,  though  slight,  was  sufficient  to  set  the  group  off 
again  in  a  confusion  of  jests  and  laughter,  in  the  midst  of 
which  Harrington  wandered  over  to  the  pistol  bench,  and 
began  to  chat  with  the  young  fellow  while  the  bout  between 
Monsieur  Bagasse  and  his  pupil  went  on.  In  a  few  minutes 
Monsieur  Bagasse  came  over  to  the  claret-can  in  that  region, 
drank,  and  took  the  opportunity  to  shake  hands  with  Har 
rington,  and  ask  for  his  health. 

"  0  by  the  way,  Mr.  Bagasse,"  said  Harrington,  after  due 
replication  to  the  old  Frenchman's  polite  inquiries,  taking  from 
his  breast  pocket  as  he  spoke,  a  bunch  of  violets  inclosed  in  a 
funnel  of  stiff  white  paper,  "  here's  a  May  gift  for  you.  I 
thought  of  you  and  your  Corporal  Violet  so  instantly  when 
I  got  this  bouquet,  that  I  resolved  to  present  it  to  you. 
Hallo,  though  !  you've  got  one  already." 

He  had  just  caught  sight  of  the  nosegay  in  the  old  slate- 
colored  jacket.  Like  his  own,  it  was  tied  with  a  pink  string. 
A  comical  look  of  surprise  came  with  a  slight  flush  to  his 
frank,  pale  face,  and  his  eye  glanced  quickly  at  the  young 
artist  who,  he  saw,  was  eagerly  watching  him  from  the  other 
side  of  the  room.  At  the  same  instant  he  saw  Witherlee 
looking  with  opaque  eyes  over  in  his  direction,  very  intent 
upon  the  iron  vice  on  the  bench  near  by,  and  with  a  face 
entirely  discharged  of  expression.  Harrington's  intelligence 
was  almost  clairvoyant,  and  he  felt  that  Witherlee  was  watch 
ing  him  and  not  the  vice — felt  also  that  Went  worth's  gaze 
meant  something  connected  with  his  present  action.  With  the 
feeling,  which  was  as  instantaneous  as  his  glance  had  been,  he 
caught  sight  of  the  eye  of  the  old  Frenchman,  roguishly  twink 
ling  at  him.  Harrington  was  puzzled. 


100  HARRINGTON. 

"  Ah,  ha,  Missr  Harrin'ton,"  said  Monsieur  Bagasse  in  a 
bantering  whisper,  "zere  are  two  ladee  zat  gif  ze  vilet,  an' 
two  zhentilmen  zat  gif  ze  vilet  too  !  Eh,  now,  zem  zhentil- 
men  sail  not  be  so  vair  mush  fond  of  zem  ladee  zat  zey  gif 
away  zere  littel  bouquet !  Ha  ?" 

"  Two  ladies  !"  exclaimed  Harrington.  "  How  do  you  know 
there  are  two  ?  I  didn't  say  so." 

Monsieur  Bagasse  was  caught,  and  shrugged  his  humpy 
shoulders  with  an  odd  grimace.  A  feeling  of  honor  withheld 
him  from  saying  how  he  came  by  his  information,  since  that 
would  involve  the  exposure  of  the  blabbing  Witherlee. 
Witherlee,  meanwhile,  fully  conscious  of  the  ridiculous  impro 
priety  he  had  been  guilty  of,  in  tattling  about  his  friends' 
affairs  to  any  person,  much  less  the  old  fencing-master,  and 
momently  expecting  to  be  subjected  to  the  rage  of  Wentworth, 
and  the  rebuke  of  Harrington,  stood  nervously  dreading  the 
reply  of  Bagasse,  and  looking  pale  in  spite  of  himself.  Went 
worth,  for  his  part,  taking  a  true-lover's  stand-point,  was  con 
siderably  amazed  to  see  Harrington,  whom  he  thought  the 
secret  lover  of  Miss  Ames,  so  coolly  bestowing  her  nosegay  on 
the  old  Frenchman.  As  for  Harrington,  he  was  divided 
between  wonder  at  Wentworth,  for  having  not  only  given  to 
the  old  Frenchman  the  flowers  he  had  received  from  Miss 
Eastman — whom  he  in  turn  thought  Wentworth  secretly 
loved — but  having  also,  as  he  naturally  supposed,  made  the 
old  Frenchman  his  confidant,  at  least  to  the  extent  of  telling 
him  of  the  two  ladies  and  of  their  gifts.  Fisk  and  Palmer 
were  at  it,  quarte  and  tierce,  with  the  foils.  Meanwhile,  there 
was  a  game  of  quarte  and  tierce  of  another  sort  begun  between 
four,  all  against  each  other,  and  Monsieur  Bagasse  had  just 
been  buttoned. 

Harrington  smiled  good-naturedly,  and  silently  gave  the 
violets  to  the  fencing-master,  who  took  them  and  bowed  with 
out  a  word.  Just  then  Wentworth  •  approached  with  a  com 
posed  air,  which  was  so  evidently  assumed  that  Harrington 
began  to  laugh.  Wentworth's  florid  color  had  paled  a  little, 
but  he  answered  Harrington's  laugh  with  a  constrained  smile, 
looking  meanwhile  in  his  face. 


HAKKING'iON.  101 

"  Well,  Harrington,"  he  said,  with  an  unsuccessful  attempt 
at  carelessness,  "  what  the  deuce  is  there  in  my  giving 
Bagasse  the  violets,  to  make  you  show  your  maxillary  muscles 
and  the  teeth  under,  your  beard  so  delightedly  ?  Hanged  if  I 
see  anything  to  laugh  at." 

The  maxillary  muscles,  which  were  unusually  developed  in 
Harrington's  cheeks,  and  always  wrinkled  them  when  he 
laughed,  relaxed  at  this,  but  his  white,  regular  teeth  still 
showed  in  a  curious,  half-sad,  half-absent  smile,  as  he  fixed  his 
clear,  broad  gaze  wistfully  on  the  face  of  his  friend.  Went- 
worth,  nettled  at  the  mystery  of  a  look  he  could  not 
fathom,  became  peevish,  and  began  to  twirl  his  moustache, 
half  smiling,  half  irritated. 

"  Don't  be  vexed,  Wentworth,"  said  Harrington,  throwing 
his  long  arm  affectionately  around  the  latter's  shoulder,  and 
moving  away  up  the  room  with  him,  while  Bagasse  shuffled 
off  to  his  pupils.  "  I  laughed  thoughtlessly — but,  frankly,  I 
was  somewhat  surprised  to  see  that  you  had  given  away  the 
violets.  That  was  all." 

"All!"  exclaimed  Wentworth.  "And  why  shouldn't  I 
give  them  away  ?  They  were  mine,  weren't  they  ?  Why, 
you  gave  yours  away  too,  didn't  you  ?" 

"To  be  sure,"  replied  Harrington,  with  a  bothered  air, 
adding  tranquilly,  "  Emily  gave  them  to  me,  and  I  gave  them 
to  Bagasse." 

"Well,"  retorted  Wentworth,  "Muriel  gave  them  to  me 
and  I  gave  them  to  Bagasse  also.  What  of  it  ?" 

Harrington,  who  could  not  see  into  this  matter  at  all,  was 
silent,  and  stroked  his  beard  with  his  hand,  a  habit  of  his  when 
he  Vas  very  much  puzzled. 

"  No  matter — it's  a  trifle,"  he  said  lightly,  after  a  pause. 
1 '  Only,  Richard,  to  be  very  plain  with  you — I  hope  you'll  not 
think  me  intrusive — well,  I  thought  it  was — odd — that  you 
should  have  given  away  the  flowers  Muriel  gave  you." 

He  spoke  these  words  with  marked,  but  delicate  significance 
— stammering  and  hesitating  a  little  in  his* speech,  which  was 
unusual  with  him.  It  was  the  first  allusion  he  had  ever  made 
to  Wentworth's  supposed  love  for  Miss  Eastman.  Loving 


102  HARRINGTON. 

her  himself,  it  was  not  made  without  a  pang.  If  Wentworth 
had  been  cool,  he  could  not  but  have  understood  it.  As  it 
was,  it  only  put  him  in  a  rage. 

"  Well,  if  I  ever  heard  the  like  of  this  !"  he  sputtered. 
"To  be  very  plain  with  me — what  in  thunder — blast  it  all, 
Harrington,  what  are  you  driving  at  ?  Why,  I  was  struck  all 
of  a  heap  at  the  oddity  of  your  giving  away  Emily's  nosegay, 
and  here  you  turn  upon  me  and  tell  me  it's  odd — yes,  odd,  that 
I  should  give  away  Muriel's  !  What's  the  difference,  I'd  like 
to  know  ?  Now,  just  tell  me  I" 

Harrington  was  silent,  and  again  stroked  his  'beard,  wonder 
ing  what  sort  of  cross-purposes  they  were  playing  at.  Went 
worth  stood  for  a  moment  with  flushed  face  and  passionate 
eyes,  angry  with  Harrington  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  and 
then  walked  away  in  great  exasperation. 

Perplexed  and  amazed  at  this  state  of  affairs,  and  grieved 
to  think  he  had,  however  unwittingly,  angered  his  friend, 
Harrington  stood  looking  after  him,  irresolute  whether  to 
follow  and  attempt  an  explanation  now,  or  wait  till  his 
fume  was  over.  Presently,  he  resolved  to  wait,  and  sadly 
musing,  began  to  pace  to  and  fro  at  the  upper  end  of  the  long 
room.' 

On  his  way  down  to  the  fencing-ground,  Wentworth  was 
met  by  Witherlee,  who  had  been  watching  the  conference,  and 
though  he  could  not  catch  a  word,  knew  well  enough  by  Went- 
worth's  excited  tones  then,  and  by  his  flushed  cheeks  and 
sparkling  eyes  now,  that  there  had  been  some  difference  be 
tween  the  two. 

"What's  the  matter,  Richard  ?"  he  asked,  kindly. 

"  0  nothing,  nothing  !"  fretfully  replied  the  vexed  Went 
worth,  taking  off  his  Rubens  hat,  dashing  back  the  thick  curls 
from  his  handsome,  sloping  forehead  with  a  hasty  hand,  and 
passionately  slapping  on  the  hat  again. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  very.  Harrington  is  really  very  aggra 
vating  sometimes,"  ventured  the  kind  Fernando. 

At  any  other  time  Wentworth  would  have  resented  this  in 
sidious  speech,  as  a  slander  upon  the  gentle  Harrington.  But 
now — 


HARRINGTON.  103 

"  He's  the  most  aggravating  fellow  I  ever  knew  in  my  life," 
was  his  hot  answer. 

"  Well,  I  wouldn't  go  so  far  as  that/7  returned  Fernando, 
with  mild  moderation.  "  By  no  means.  Harrington  has  fine 
qualities,  you  know.  You  should  remember  that  the  best  of 
us  are  apt  to  be  a  little  forgetful  when  our  own  personal  inter 
ests,  or  wishes,  or  aifections  are  involved."  t 

Blandly  and  kindly  said,  with  just  a  shade  of  hesitating 
emphasis  on  "  personal "  and  "  affections  " — just  a  shade. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Fernando  ?"  asked  Went- 
worth,  almost  choking,  and  catching  at  the  insidious  hint, 
which  the  good  Fernando  had  made  almost  impalpable  by 
throwing  it  out  with  the  easy  manner  of  one  uttering  a  mere 
generality. 

"  Mean  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  delicate  shade  of  bewilderment,- 
"  why  nothing  particular,  that  I  know  of." 

But  he  smiled  slightly  and  lifted  his  handsome  eyebrows 
very  slightly,  and  then  lapsed  into  an'  expression  of  soft  com 
passion. 

"  Yes,  I  understand,"  said  Wentworth,  walking  away  in 
passionate  misery. 

What  particular  meaning  the  good  Fernando's  vague  words 
and  mysterious  looks  expressed,  nobody  could  have  told.  It 
was  their  especial  beauty,  perhaps,  that  they  really  expressed 
nothing  definite  at  all,  and  were  merely  random  spurs  to  the 
imagination  of  the  listener,  goading  him  on  the  path  he  hap 
pened  to  be  pursuing.  Wentworth's  path  at  that  moment  was 
the  vague  suspicion  that  Harrington  was  selfishly  supplanting 
him  in  his  relation  to  Emily.  It  was  a  path  out  of  which  he 
had  turned  several  times,  urged  by  his  strong  sense  of  Harring 
ton's  perfect  nobility,  but  he  was  now  in  it  again,  and  with 
the  talented  Fernando's  last  bunch  of  thorns  insidiously  tied  to 
his  galloping  fancy,  and  stinging  it  on,  he  was  going  at  a  head 
long  pace  for  mad  jealousy  and  outright  hostility,  and  would 
soon  be  there. 

Witherlee,  meanwhile,  highly  gratified  at  the  success  of  his 
insinuations  with  Wentworth,  was  enjoying  the  young  artist's 
distress  when  he  caught  sight  of  Harrington  standing  at  the 


104  HAKKINGTON. 

upper  end  of  the  room,  and  looking  at  him.  It  was  embarrass 
ing,  and  he  was  about  to  avert  his  eyes,  but  at  that  instant 
Harrington  beckoned  to  him.  He  hesitated,  and  then  with 
considerable  trepidation,  for  he  did  not  know  what  was  coming, 
he  walked  up  the  room. 

Harrington's  face  was  introverted  and  sad,  and  his  eyes  were 
fixed  on  vacancy.  Witherlee  felt  glad  that  the  broad  gaze  did 
not  rest  on  his  face,  for  he  feared  its  inquest. 

"Fernando,"  said  Harrington,  calmly  and  kindly,  though 
with  evident  embarrassment,  "  I  want  to  speak  with  you  on  a 
very  delicate  subject.  You  have  known  Miss  Eastman  and 
Miss  Ames  a  long  time — much  longer  than  I  have.  You  " — 

Harrington  paused  for  a  moment.  Witherlee's  heart  beat 
an  alarmed  tattoo,  though  his  colorless  face  was  perfectly 
impassible. 

"Richard  is  in  a  strange  state  lately," resumed  Harrington, 
smiling  vaguely.  "You  must  have  noticed  it,  Fernando. 
Just  now,  he  spoke  to  me  in  a  manner  which  I  do  not  under 
stand.  Something  frets  him.  Have  you  any  idea  what  it  is  ?" 

"  Not  the  least,  though  I've  noticed  it,"  returned  the  imper 
turbable  Fernando. 

"  Well,  I  haven't  either,"  said  Harrington.  "  But  see  here. 
You  remember  what  you  said  to  me  at  my  room  about  a  week 
ago.  Previous  to  that  conversation,  it  was  my  own  fancy  that 
Richard  was  very  much  attached  to  Miss  Ames.  You  sur 
prised  me  very  much  when  you  told  me  you  thought  his  feeling 
was  for — for  Muriel.  I  never  should  have  guessed  it.  You 
astonished  me  still  more  by  what  you  told  me  after  that.  But 
something  Richard  said  just  now  made  me  fancy  that  you  may 
have  been  mistaken,  and  I  want  to  ask  you  if  you  are  perfectly 
sure  of  what  you  saw." 

Harrington  paused  again,  nervously  twitching  his  beard 
with  his  large  shapely  hand.  Before  Witherlee  could  reply, 
he  went  on  again. 

"  Let  me  recall  that  conversation,"  he  *said.  "  You  sat  in 
my  arm-chair  smoking,  and  you  were  praising  Muriel,  which 
was  pleasant  for  me  to  hear.  Presently,  you  remarked,  '  she'll 
make  Wentworth  a  superb  wife,'  and  then  you  quoted  from 


HARRINGTON.  105 

Tennyson's  '  Isabel ' — '  the  queen  of  marriage,  a  most  perfect 
wife.'  I  was,  I  own,  amazed.  '  Why,  Wentworth  ?'  I  asked. 
You  looked  surprised,  and  said,  '  Why  not  Wentworth  ?'  Then 
you  added — '  When  people  love,  don't  they  marry  ?'  '  Cer 
tainly,'  I  returned,  'but  you  are  mistaken,  I  think.'  'I  think 
not,'  you  replied,  with  a  manner  so  cool  and  positive,  that  I 
was,  to  be  frank  with  you,  a  little  annoyed.  I  was  about  to  drop 
the  subject  there,  for  it  seemed  to  me  hardly  fair  to  canvass 
such  a  matter,  when  you  remarked,  '  In  fact,  I  know  I'm  not.' 
I  replied,  l  It  is  quite  impossible  that  you  should  know  it, 
Fernando,  though  you  may  have  what  seem  to  you  strong 
reasons  for  believing  it.'  You  answered,  rather  unkindly  it 
appeared  to  me — '  Do  you  doubt  my  word  ?'  '  Not  at  all,'  I 
said.  '  How  can  you  think  so — it's  not  a  question  of  veracity 
at  all,  but  of  judgment  ?  '  Well,'  said  you,  '  I  have  proof — 
ocular  proof — I  wouldn't  say  it  if  you  didn't  put  me  to  it.' 
And  then  you  told  me  that  you  visited  the  house  the  previous 
afternoon,  and  as  you  were  entering  the  parlor,  you  saw 
Richard  and  Muriel  standing  together  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  with  their  arms  around  each  other,  and  saw  them  kiss 
each  other.  You  drew  back  instantly,  you  said,  without  hav 
ing  been  perceived  by  them,  and  made  a  clatter  in  the  hall 
before  you  entered  again.  I  could  hardly  forgive  you  at  the 
time  for  having  told  me  what  you  saw,  or  myself  for  having 
listened  to  you,  for  it  was  not  a  thing  to  be  either  told  of  or 
listened  to.  But  I  grant  it  happened  naturally  enough  in  the 
heat  of  the  moment,  and  after  all,  I  am  glad  to  have  known 
of  an  occurrence,  the  knowledge  of  which  may  prevent  misun 
derstanding  and  trouble." 

Harrington  paused  once  more,  with  vague  emotion  strug 
gling  in  his  features  and  his  eyes  fixed  sadly  on  vacancy.  The 
truth  of  the  matter  was  this  :  Witherlee  had  seen  on  the  oc 
casion  referred  to,  two  persons  in  the  attitude  described,  one 
of  whom  was  Wentworth,  and  the  other  a  young  lady  who, 
at  the  first  glance,  he  thought  was  Muriel,  inasmuch  as  she 
wore  a  lilac  dress  such  as  Muriel  wore  at  tinies.  He  had,  as 
he  had  said,  retreated  instantly — quite  astounded  too,  for  he 
had  made  up  his  mind  that  Emily  was  Wcntworth's  sweet- 

5* 


106  HARRINGTON. 

heart.  But  on  entering  again,  he  saw  that  he  had  been  mis 
taken,  and  that  the  lady  with  Wentworth  was  not  Muriel,  but 
Emily.  The  illusion,  however,  made  a  strong  impression  on 
his  fancy,  and  his  mind  teemed  with  tempting  imaginings 
of  Wentworth -and  Muriel  in  the  Ilomeo  and  Juliet  tableau. 
It  was  an  easy  step  in  his  controversy  with  Harrington,  begun 
simply  for  aggravation  and  continued  with  an  obstinate  desire 
to  establish  what  he  had  so  impudently  assumed,  to  present 
his  fancy  as  a  fact,  and  insist  upon  it.  This  was  a  fair  speci 
men  of  one  of  the  good  Fernando's  lies,  which  were  rarely 
sheer  inventions,  but  generally  had  a  basis  of  truth  in  them. 

"  Now,  Fernando,"  resumed  Harrington,  "  I  want  to  ask 
you  whether  it  is  possible  that  you  could  have  been  mistaken  ? 
Are  you  absolutely  sure  that  it  was  Muriel  you  saw  with 
Wentworth,  and  not  Miss  Ames  ?" 

Fernando's  drowsy  conscience  awoke  just  enough  to  give 
him  a  lethargic  pinch,  and  dozed  off  again. 

"I  do  not  see,  Harrington/7  he  replied  with  an  injured  air, 
"  how  I  could  be  mistaken.  There  was  nobody  else  in  the 
room  but  Wentworth  and  Muriel  when  I  first  looked  in. 
Emily  was  coming  in  through  the  conservatory  door  at  the 
end  of  the  parlor  as  I  entered,  but  she  was  not  there  before." 

This  was  an  ingenious  transposition  of  the  fact.  It  was 
Muriel  who  came  in  at  the  conservatory  door,  and  not  Emily. 
But  Fernando  had  covered  his  position  famously.  In  the 
event  of  the  truth  coming  out,  he  could  swear  that  in  the 
confusion  of  the  moment  he  had  mistaken  one  lady  for  the 
other,  apologize  profusely,  and  make  the  explanation  seem 
plausible. 

"  It  was  certainly  Muriel,"  he  resumed.  "  Still  the  affair 
may  be  susceptible  of  a  different  interpretation.  You  must  con 
cede  at  least  that  Muriel  and  Wentworth  like  each  other  very 
much,  and  they  might  kiss  each  other  and  still  be  only 
friends." 

"  No,"  said  Harrington,  firmly — "  that  is  not  possible. 
That  is  not  like  Muriel.  I  know  her  too  well  to  suppose  that 
for  a  moment.  If  she  kissed  Wentworth,  she  loves  him.  I 
do  not  doubt  you,  Fernando.  Their  present  close  intimacy 


HAKKINGTON.  107 

with  each  other  confirms  your  story,  I  own.  But  something 
Richard  said  just  now  shook  my  belief — made  me  think,  in 
fact,  that  you  ^  ere  in  error,  and  I  wanted  to  be  doubly  sure 
that  you  were  not.  Let  me  only  say  that  I  have  a  better 
motive  for  this  inquiry  than  curiosity — and  now  let  all  this  be 
forgotten.  Never  mention  it  again,  I  beg  of  you,  to  any 
person.  Let  it  all  pass  forever." 

Witherlee's  conscience  smote  him  terribly,  and  he  felt  mad 
dened  at  his  meanness,  as  Harrington  strode  away.  But  he 
was  fully  committed  to  his  course,  and  to  own  his  fault  was 
impossible  with  him. 

Wentworth,  meanwhile,  was  standing  apart  with  a  gloomy 
face,  listlessly  watching  the  fencing.  His  fancy  was  still  gal 
loping  furiously  with  him  to  the  goal  of  the  jealous  lover,  but 
it  began  to  swerve  from  the  track  in  spite  of  him,  as  he  saw 
Harrington  coming  down  the  room.  Harrington's  mere  pre 
sence  was  a  constant  demand  on  every  person  for  the  best  that 
was  in  them ;  and  before  the  conquering  sweetness  of  his  smile, 
Wentworth's  jealous  doubts  and  suspicions  at  once  scattered 
and  fled,  and  his  nobler  feelings  rushed  forward.  The  tears 
filled  his  bright  eyes  as  Harrington  came  straight  up  to 
him  and  caught  his  hand.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  his  lips  fal 
tered. 

"Richard,  I  ask  your  pardon,"  said  Harrington.  "I  am 
sorry  to  have  annoyed  you  ;  but  it  was  entirely  unintentional. 
I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you,  that  we  may  understand  each 
other  better.  Not  now — another  time.  In  the  meantime,  let 
us  be  friends." 

Wentworth  wrung  his  hand,  wholly  vanquished,  and  unable 
to  say  a  word. 

"  Come,"  said  Harrington,  gaily,  with  the  muscles  in  his 
cheeks  wrinkling  again,  and  his  teeth  gleaming  in  his  beard, 
with  a  rich  smile — "  come,  that  was  only  a  zephyr.  Let's  go 
fence." 

No  more  was  said,  and  they  went  over  to  the  fencing-ground, 
where  Fisk  was  being  punched  and  poked  and  interjected  at 
and  admonished  by  Monsieur  Bagasse,  to  his  utter  bewilder 
ment.  In  a  few  minutes,  the  master  got  through  with  him, 


108  HARRINGTON. 

and  set  him  and  Palmer  to  practise  against  each  other  He 
then  turned  to  Wentworth,  who  had  taken  off  hat  and  coat, 
and  was  chattering  like  a  mercurial  magpie,  with  his  handsome 
face  enveloped  hi  a  mask. 

"Come,  now,  Missr  Went  wort',"  said  Bagasse.  "You 
pink  zat  ozzer  vilet  if  you  can .  En  garde." 

Wentworth  laughed,  and,  crossing  blades,  they  fell  to.  The 
young  artist  fenced  briskly  and  well,  though  somewhat  rashly. 
Once  he  contrived  to  touch  the  fencing-master  on  the  arm,  for 
which  lucky  stroke  he  got  paid  with  half  a  dozen  in  succession 
on  his  breast. 

.  "  Thunder  !"  he  exclaimed  as  he  got  the  last,  "  what's  the 
use  of  fencing  with  you,  Bagasse  ?  Nobody  can  touch  you, 
and  you're  as  light  on  your  pins  as  though  you  were  twenty." 

The  old  man  chuckled  grimly,  relapsing  into  his  clumsiest 
and  most  ungainly  .attitude. 

"  Light  !"  put  in  Witherlee.  "  I  guess  he  is.  His  legs  are 
made  of  caout-chouc,  I  should  think,  judging  by  the  way  he 
can  kick." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  can  keek,"  returned  Bagasse.  "  I  haf  my  leg 
pretty  su-ple." 

He  turned  toward  the  post  against  which  Witherlee  was 
leaning,  and  laid  his  grimy  finger  on  a  notch  a  little  above  his 
own  head.  Witherlee  stood  aside,  and  every  eye  followed  the 
fencing-master.  Suddenly,  rising  on  one  foot,  he  dealt  the 
notch  a  furious  kick,  amidst  cries  of  '"  good"  and  " bravo." 
Sure  enough,  the  leg  had  flown  up  to  the  mark,  like  a  leg  of 
india-rubber. 

"  Ha  I"  he  exclaimed,  complacently,  "  you  do  zat,  you  young 
men.  Try  now — evairy  one." 

Wentworth  tried  first,  kicked  high,  but  did  not  come  within 
a  foot  of  the  mark.  Whilt  came  next,  stolid  and  taciturn, 
kicked,  and  tumbled  over,  amidst  general  laughter.  Vukovich 
lifted  his  shapely  leg,  kicked  within  half  a  foot,  and  split  his 
blue  trowsers,  at  which  he  looked  grieved,  and  swore  softly  in 
Hungarian,  while  the  rest  laughed  at  him.  Then  came  Fisk 
and  Palmer  and  the  others,  with  poor  success,  and  amidst 
much  merriment. 


HAEKLNGTON.  109 

In  the  quiet  that  followed,  Whilt,  who  had  been  as  dumb 
as  a  skull,  suddenly  began  to  shake  and  whinny  so  with  guttu 
ral  mirth,  that  everybody  looked  at  him  with  surprise.  '  It 
came  out,  after  some  inquiry,  that  he  was  laughing  at  Yuko- 
vich  for  having  torn  his  trowsers,  an  incident  which  had  just 
touched  his  sense  of  the  ludicrous  when  everybody  else  had 
almost  forgotten  it.  Of  course  there  was  another  obstreperous 
roar  of  merriment,  and  Witherlee  told  Whilt  he  laughed  too 
soon — he  ought  to  have  waited  till  next  week — with  other 
sarcasms  of  the  same  nature,  which  the  slow  Dutchman  took 
into  sober  consideration. 

"  Come,  Harrington,"  said  Wentworth,  "  you  try." 

Harrington  had  stood  apart,  smiling  amusedly,  through  all 
this  clatter. 

"  Ah,  Missr  Harrin'ton,  he  can  keek  wis  me,"  exclaimed 
Bagasse.  "  He  keek  sublime." 

Harrington  laughed,  and  advancing,  took  up  a  bit  of  chalk 
from  the  floor,  and  marked  a  line  on  the  post,  as  much  above 
his  own  head  as  the  notch  had  been  above  the  fencing-master's. 
Then  poising  a  second,  he  threw  up  his  leg,  and  brought 
away  chalk  on  his  boot.  There  was  a  general  burst  of  accla 
mation. 

"Ah,  ha  !  it  is  grand — it  is  superb  1"  cried  Monsieur 
Bagasse.  "  Missr  Harrington,  he  can  keek  wis  me,  he  can 
fence,  wis  me,  he  can  shoot  wis  me,  he  can  engage  wis  me  in 
ze  broadsword — ze  single-steek,  he  can  do  everysing  so  I  can. 
It  is  his  talent.  Sacrebleu  !  He  is  for-r-mi-dabble." 

Harrington  laughed,  with  an  expression  and  gesture  of 
deprecation. 

"How  many  men  could  you  fight  together,  Monsoor ?" 
asked  Palmer. 

"  Me  ?  I  fight  you  all.  Evairy  one.  Togezzer,"  replied 
the  Frenchman. 

"  Mawdoo  !"  ejaculated  Palmer.     "  Isn't  he  a  trump  1" 

"  Come,  Bagasse,  that  will  do  for  the  marines,"  said  Went 
worth.  "  You  can't  do  it." 

"  Ah,"  replied  the  fencing-master,  "  you  zink  not  ?  Bah  ! 
Come,  I  show  you." 


110  HARRINGTON. 

In  a  minute  he  had  seven  or  eight  of  them,  Wentworth, 
Yukovich,  Palmer  and  Fisk  included,  masked  and  foiled. 
Then  putting  his  back  to  the  wall,  he  directed  them  to  set 
upon  him.  It  was  agreed  that  if  he  was  touched  the  contest 
was  to  end  there.  On  the  other  hand,  every  combatant 
touched  was  to  withdraw. 

"  Pardoo  !     It  is  splendid  I"  exclaimed  Palmer. 

"  Mawdoo  !     It  is  fine  !"  returned  Fisk. 

The  domestically-pronounced  French  oaths  which  prefixed 
these  asseverations,  were,  of  course,  borrowed  by  Messrs.  Fisk 
and  Palmer  from  the  "  Three  Guardsmen,"  and  figured  exten 
sively  on  all  possible  occasions  in  their  general  conversation. 

"  Come,  Harrington,  you  too,"  cried  Wentworth. 

"  No,  no — ex-cuse  me — pardon,"  interrupted  Monsienr 
Bagasse,  smiling,  grimacing  and  bowing  all  at  once  ;  "  not 
Missr  Harrin'ton.  Zat  will  be  too  mush— vair  many  too 
mush." 

Harrington  colored  slightly,  and  laughed.  Monsieur 
Bagasse  put  on  a  mask,  threw  himself  on  guard,  and  stood 
girt  with  antagonists,  with  his  foil  playing  like  a  pale  gleam, 
menacing  them  all.  Suddenly  it  darted — there  was  a  brisk 
clatter  of  parries — and  Yukovich  was  touched.  It  was  a  com 
pliment  to  the  skill  of  the  gallant  captain  that  Bagasse  had 
got  rid  of  him  thus  early  in  the  game,  and  he  came  off  simper 
ing,  and  stroking  his  moustache  complacently. 

"  He  keel  me  fery  queek,  Meeser  Haynton,"  he  observed 
to  the  young  man,  who  stood  attentively  watching  the  contest. 

"  Ah,  Captain,"  returned  Harrington  gaily,  addressing  him 
in  French,  "  but  your  ghost  can  fence  better  than  most  of  us 
still." 

The  captain's  vanity  was  evidently  flattered  by  the  com 
pliment,  for  he  swelled  a  little  with  an  air  of  increased  com 
placency,  though  he  made  no  reply.  Witherlee,  who  was 
standing  behind  him,  a  silent  observer  of  the  sport,  glanced  at 
him  with  a  bilious  sneer.  Meanwhile,  amidst  shouts  and 
laughter,  and  noisy  appels  and  glizades,  the  young  men  were 
assailing  Bagasse,  trying  all  sorts  of  feints  and  tricks  to  pene 
trate  his  guard.  Harrington  watched  him  admiringly — so 


HARKTNGTON.  Ill 

statue-still  in  the  tumultuous  press,  his  awkwardness  and  shab- 
biness  gone,  the  wire  globe  of  the  mask  giving  a  weird  look  to 
his  head,  his  bent  arm  holding  his  assailants  at  bay,  and  the 
pale  gleam  of  the  foil  glancing  nimbly  all  about  the  arc  of  the 
ring.  Presently  the  guarding  foil  whisked  and  rattled  with  a 
confusion  of  brilliant  coruscations,  playing  like  elfin  lightning 
all  around  the  semi-circle — the  bent  arm  of  the  invincible  fig 
ure  at  which  all  were  lunging,  straightened  and  darted  thrice, 
rapid  as  a  flash — and  amidst  mock  groans  and  cries  and 
laughter,  Wentworth,  Fisk,  and  Palmer  withdrew.  They 
came  away  vociferously  mirthful,  and  before  they  had  well  got 
the  masks  off  their  flushed  faces,  the  others  were  all  touched 
and  followed  them,  leaving  Monsieur  Bagasse  standing  alone, 
erect  and  martial,  his  one  eye  glowing  like  a  coal  in  the  proud 
grotesque  smile  of  his  swarthy  visage,  his  left  arm  akimbo, 
holding  the  mask  on  his  hip,  and  the  victorious  foil  held  aloft 
in  his  right  hand,  and  quivering  above  his  head  like  a  rod  of 
wizard  lustre. 

There  were  loud  bravos  and  clapping  of  hands.  The  next 
instant  the  statue  of  military  triumph  dropped  into  the  clumsy, 
sloven  figure  of  Bagasse,  and  hobbled  off  to  the  claret-can. 
He  came  hurrying  back  presently  with  the  foil  and  mask  in 
one  hand,  and  stood,  the  centre  of  a  great  smell  of  garlic, 
grinning  curiously  at  Fisk  and  Palmer,  who,  in  an  ecstasy  of 
excitement  from  their  recent  engagement,  were  playing  they 
were  D'Artagnan  and  Porthos,  and  poking  furiously  at  each 
other  with  all  the*"  Guardsmen"  oaths  and  epigrams  in  full 
ventilation. 

"  Well,  Missr  Wentwort',  what  you  zink  now  ?"  he  asked, 
triumphantly. 

"  What  do  I  think  ?  I  think  you  could  have  let  Harring 
ton  come  on  too,  and  then  have  beaten  us  all,"  was  the  gay 
reply. 

"Ah,  no,"  returned  Monsieur  Bagasse,  "not  wis  Missr 
Harrin'ton." 

"Come,  Meeser  Haynton,"  said  Yukovich  ;  "you  an-' 
Mossieu  Bagasse.  Oblise  me  and  dese  sentilmen." 

At  once  there  was  a  clamor  of  beseechings,  to  which  the 


112  HARRINGTON. 

parties  addressed  presently  yielded.  Witherlee,  who  hated  to 
see  Harrington  fence,  because  he  fenced  so  well,  quietly 
slipped  away  from  the  room.  Fisk  and  Palmer  stopped,  and 
gathered  with  the  others  around  the  fencing-place.  Mean 
while,  Monsieur  Bagasse  took  the  violets  from  his  jacket  and 
laid  them  away  ;  then  put  on  a  plastron — an  honor  he  had 
not  paid  to  any  other  of  his  pupils  that  day,  and  resumed  his 
mask.  Harrington  took  off  his  coat  and  vest,  and  arrayed 
himself  also  in  mask  and  plastron. 

They  took  their  places,  and  after  performing  the  beautiful 
elaborate  salute  of  the  exercise,  fell  upon  guard.  Every  eye 
was  riveted  on  the  stalwart  grace  of  Harrington  as  he  crossed 
blades  with  his  antagonist.  .  As  for  the  French  gladiator, 
excited  by  the  coming  contest  with  one  who  could  call  into 
play  all  his  powers,  his  attitude  was  superb,  and  his  trans 
formation  more  complete  than  before. 

The  contest  was  begun  by  a  feint,  quick  and  light,  on  the 
part  of  the  fencing-master,  and  in  a  second  it  was  pass  and 
parry  with  a  rapturous  flash  and  clash  of  steel.  Presently  the 
right  foot  of  Bagasse  beat  the  floor  with  the  loud  rat-tat  of  the 
appel,  and  foot  and  arm  and  body  sprang  forward  with  a  ter 
rific  lunge.  Harrington,  immovable  as  a  pillar,  met  it  with  a 
swift  twirl  of  the  wrist,  and  the  next  second  both  combatants 
were  still,  with  their  foils -locked  in  a  complete  spiral  from 
hilt  to  point. 

Disengaging  presently,  the  combatants  saluted  amidst  sup 
pressed  murmurs  of  applause,  crossed  bHfoles  once  more,  and 
stood  with  each  point  seeking  an  opening.  In  a  moment  or 
two,  Bagasse  feinted  again,  and  lunged  in  tierce.  Harrington 
parried  in  seconde,  letting  his  point  fly  up  and  his  arm  extend 
in  the  parry,  and  pushing  home,  his  foil  became  a  curve  with 
the  button  resting  on  the  bosom  of  the  fencing-master. 

It  was  the  first  hit,  and  everybody  hurrahed.  Presently 
the  hurrah  burst  forth  again  for  Bagasse,  who  had  hit  Har 
rington.  In  less  than  five  minutes  the  combat  grew  almost  as 
exciting  as  a  duel  with  swords.  To  follow  the  dazzling  rapid 
ity  of  the  lunges  and  parries  became  impossible.  The  gazers 
could  only  see  a  nimble  play  of  rattling  light  between  the  two 


HAKKISGTON.  113 

• 

-the  lines  of  the  foils  lost  in  curves  and  gleams  of  brilliance 
— and  the  gloved  sword-arms  of  the  antagonists  flying  like 
twirling  and  darting  shuttles  above  the  clashing  corusca 
tions.  The  interest  now  centred  in  the  aspect  and  expression 
of  the  combatants.  Bagasse,  throwing  his  whole  fiery  nature 
into  the  soul-entrancing  action  of  the  duel,  was  in  an  ecstasy 
of  martial  joy,  and  lunged  and  parried  with  exulting  shouts 
and  cries — a  darting,  swaying  figure,  terribly  alert  and  alive, 
with  the  spring  and  strength  of  a  fury.  Harrington,  on  the 
contrary,  was  silent  as  death,  impassible,  elastic,  swift — a 
regnant  form  of  muscular  grace  poised  in  superb  aplomb,  that 
fell  to  half  its  height  in  the  long  lunges,  and  rose  magnificent 
in  the  quick  recoils.  An  atmosphere  of  fiery  ether  seemed  to 
envelop  the  combatants,  spreading  its  glorious  delirium  through 
the  veins  of  the  gazers,  and  kindling  the  delight  of  battle  in 
their  eyes.  But  as  the  combat  continued,  the  wild  passion  of 
the  action  became  so  intense  and  real  that  the  heroic  glow 
began  to  pale  and  mingle  with  a  cold  aifright,  and  Wentworth, 
beginning  to  feel  his  agitation  master  him,  was  on  the  point 
of  shouting  to  Harrington  to  stop,  when  there  was  a  sharp 
snap,  followed  by  sudden  silence,  and  the  combat  was  over. 
Bagasse  stood  panting  through  his  mask  with  a  broken  foil  in 
his  hand.  Harrington  breathing  audibly  in  long,  regular 
breaths  through  his,  remained  in  attitude  with  his  point  low 
ered,  like  one  awakened  from  a  dream.  The  next  instant, 
Bagasse  broke  the  silence  with  a  wild  shout,-  and  throwing 
away  mask  and  foil,  flung  his  arms  around  Harrington  in  a 
joyful  embrace,  and  bursting  away,  vented  the  remnant  of  his 
joy  by  dealing  the  high  notch  on  the  post  a  kick  that  might 
have  brought  the  roof  down. 

There  was  a  ringing  hurrah,  followed  by  a  burst  of  hearty 
laughter,  congratulations,  and  shaking  of  hands  all  round. 

"  But,  by  Jupiter,"  cried  Wentworth,  "  I'm  glad  its  over, 
for,  upon  my  word,  I  began  to  get  frightened.  Blessed  if  I 
ever  saw  you  two  have  such  a  bout  before  !  Bagasse,  you  old 
reprobate,  I  believe  you  were  in  earnest." 

He  turned  with  a  peal  of  laughter  upon  the  old  man,  who 
stood  exhaling  garlic,  and  wiping  his  hot  face  with  a  snuffy 


114  HARRINGTON. 

old  red  pocket  handkerchief.  Bagasse  grinned  good-nature'dly, 
gave  his  old  moustache  a  dab  with  the  handkerchief,  and 
thrusting  out  the  latter  with  a  joyful  gesture,  replied  : 

"  I  was  teepsy,  Missr  Wentwort' — daid-drunk  wis  ze  joay 
of  ze  beautifool  en-countair.  Hah  !  by  dam  !  zat  make  me 
feel  young." 

"  I  should  think  so,  you  blood-thirsty  old  rapier  I"  bawled 
Wentworth.  "  And  you,"  he  continued,  turning  upon  Har 
rington,  "  you  were  in  earnest,  too,  I  verily  believe,  and  bent 
upon  taking  your  fencing-master's  life.  A  nice  pair,  both  of 
you,  for  a  peaceable  young  man  like  me  to  meet  in  a  dark 
alley  going  home  late." 

Harrington,  who  was  leaning  against  the  wall,  getting  his 
wind,  as  the  saying  goes,  laughed  without  replying.  His 
usual  pallor  had  given  place  to  a  faint  pink,  and  his  broad 
winged  nostrils  were  lifting  with  his  deep  breaths  under  his 
lighted  eyes  and  white  forehead,  on  which  the  brown  locks  lay 
damp.  Wentworth  thought  he  had  never  seen  him  look  more 
princely. 

"  But  no,"  Wentworth  rattled  on,  "I  don't  believe  it  of 
you,  Harrington.  For  you're  what  Kingsley  calls  a  muscular 
Christian.  As  for  Bagasse,  he's  a  muscular  pagan,  who  lives 
on  raw  meat,  gunpowder  and  brandy,  and  there's  nothing  too 
bad  for  me  to  believe  of  him.  Is*  there,  Bagasse  ?" 

He  patted  the  old  man  on  the  shoulder  as  he  said  it,  look 
ing  smilingly  in  his  face.  Bagasse  gazed  with  grotesque 
fondness  at  the  handsome  and  gallant  countenance,  as  on  that 
of  a  privileged  pet,  and  continued  to  mop  his  glowing  visage. 

"  What's  the  time,  Richard  ?"  asked  Harrington,  beginning 
to  dress  himself. 

"  Quarter  of  ten  by  all  that's  good  !"  exclaimed  the  other, 
looking  at  his  watch.  "  Time  for  me  to  be  at  the  studio,  and 
you  at  the  books.  But  I  won't  say  that,  for  upon  my  word, 
Harrington,  you  study  too  hard.  The  Pierian  spring  will  be 
the  death  of  you,  young  man." 

"  0,  no,"  replied  Harrington,  laughing  gaily.  "  I'm  in 
good  health.  The  daily  bout  with  the  foils  or  broadswords 
balances  the  hours  at  the  books." 


HARRINGTON.  115 

"  Nevertheless  you  look  rather  Hamletish  in  your  pallor," 
returned  Wentworth.  "Though  to  be  sure  the  pale  prince 
was  a  special  good  hand  at  the  rapier,  in  which,  as  in  other 
respects,  you  resemble  him.  '  The  scholar,  soldier,  courtier's 
eye,  tongue,  sword — the  expectancy  and  rose  of  the  fair  State 7 
of  Massachusetts — that's  you,  Harrington." 

"  Seems  to  me,  Richard,  the  quotation  bung  .and  the  head 
of  the  soft-soap  barrel  are  both  out  together  this  morning," 
bantered  Harrington. 

"  *  I  paint  you  in  character/  "  returned  the  mercurial  Went 
worth,  with  another  Shaksperean  reminiscence.  "Being  a 
member  of  the  Boston  Mutual  Admiration  Society,  and  this 
being  Anniversary  week,  soft-soap  is  perfectly  in  order.  There 
fore,  I  affirm  that  you  are  of  the  Hamlet  order  plus  Crichton, 
plus  Raleigh,  Sidney,  Hatton,  Blount,  Southampton  " 

"Shakspeare  and  Verulam,"  jeered  Harrington. 

"  Together  with  Shakspeare  and  Yerulam.  And  now  that 
I  have  made  a  clean  breast  of  it,  and  as  you  are  dressed,  sup 
pose  we  depart.  Young  Mephistopheles,  alias  Witherlee,  has 
gone  already,  I  notice.  Our  mercantile  friends  are  off,  too, 
and  a  proper  rowing  they'll  get  for  being  late  at  the  store  this 
morning.  Oh,  Bagasse,  Bagasse  1  you've  much  to  answer 
for — corrupting  the  mercantile  youth  of  this  realm  by  traitor 
ously  erecting  a  fencing-school  !  Apropos  of  fencing,  it's  more 
than  a  week -since  we've  had  a  bout  with  our  dear  fairy  prince. 
By  Jupiter  I  what  a  pleasure  it  is  to  see  Muriel  at  the  foils  I 
I'm  so  glad  you  persuaded  her  to  learn  " 

"  Oh,  you're  wrong  there,"  interrupted  Harrington.  "  It 
was  she  persuaded  me  to  teach  her.  Muriel  has  a  passion  for 
liberal  culture,  and  fencing  is  part  of  her  programme." 

"  Isn't  she  glorious  !"  cried  Wentworth  with  enthusiasm. 
"  A  woman  ? — a  young  goddess  rather  !  By  Jove  !  the  best 
swimmer  of  all  the  girls  last  summer  at  Gloucester.  The  best 
skater  last  winter  on  Jamaica  pond.  Climbed  the  mountains 
in  October  with  the  best  of  us.  Runs  like  Atalanta.  Dances 
like  Terpsichore.  Sings  like  a  seraph.  Talks  in  a  voice  like 
Israfel's.  Studies  almost  as  hard  as  you  do,  Harrington. 
And  now  she  fences  like  an  angel.  I  declare  she's  a  perfect 


116  HARRINGTON. 

young  Crichtona.  And  jet  how  womanly  withal !  Not  a 
touch  of  the  masculine  about  her.  Gay,  free,  strong,  sweet — 
oh,  fairy  prince,  there's  none  like  you,  none." 

Harrington  listened  to  this  ardent  celebration  of  the  charms 
of  her  Wentworth  called  the  fairy  prince,  in  perfect  silence 
and  with  a  secret  astonishment  in  his  pale,  controlled  counte 
nance.  He  believed  Wentworth  loved  Muriel,  but  for  the  life 
of  him  he  could  not  reconcile  this  lavish  panegyric  with  that 
belief.  For  love  is  reticent,  and  we  let  expressive  silence 
muse  the  sweetheart's  praise.  How  then  could  Wentworth 
thus  blazon  his  beloved  ?  Harrington  was  puzzled. 

"  There's  a  curious  element  of  surprise  in  Muriel,  too."  resumed 
Wentworth,  with  a  musing  air.  "She  is  so  gentle,  so  repose 
ful  and  graceful,  that  when  she  flashes  out  in  these  courage 
ous  physical  accomplishments  I  always  feel  a  little  astonished. 
Don't  you,  Harrington  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  returned  Harrington.  "  She  has  a  rich,  versa 
tile,  inclusive  nature.  You  know  that  this  union  of  feminine 
gentleness  and  manly  spirit  is  not  so  uncommon.  There  was 
the  Countess  Emily  Plater,  for  example,  the  heroine  of 
the  Polish  Revolution  ;  yet  with  all  her  bravery,  she  was 
peculiarly  tender  and  gentle.  There,  again,  was  the  Maid  of 
Saragossa,  who  fought  for  her  country  over  the  body  of  her 
lover  ;  but  Byron,  who  saw  her  often  at  Madrid,  says  she  was 
remarkable  for  her  soft,  feminine  beauty.  Muriel  is  a  woman 
of  the  same  style,  I  suppose.  Come,  Richard,  let's  go." 

They  saluted  the  old  Frenchman,  who  stood  with  the  Hunga 
rian  at  the  pistol  bench,  and  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MURIEL     AND     EMILY. 

TEMPLE  street  slopes  steeply  down  Beacon  Hill,  an  aristocratic 
street  of  the  aristocratic  quarter. 

In  Temple  street  lived  Muriel  with  her  mother.     Mrs.  East- 


HAKEINGTON.  117 

man  was  a  widow.  Her  husband,  a  young  scholar,  primarily 
a  lawyer,  had  died  three  years  after  their  marriage,  when  Mu 
riel  was  but  two  years  old.  The  effect  of  his  death  on  his 
wife  was  peculiar.  Fitly  named  Serena,  so  gentle  and  lovely 
was  her  nature,  his  death  had  not  made  her  unhappy,  but  it 
had  breathed  a  deeper  quiet  into  her  gentleness,  and  her  life 
had  been,  since  then,  as  calm  as  evening.  She  had  been  a 
poet- — some  of  those  exquisite  little  anonymous  lyrics,  of  which 
America  produces  so  many,  and  which  float  about  through  the 
press,  scattering  delight  but  winning  no  fame,  were  hers.  But 
his  death  had  stilled  her  muse  forever.  It  seemed  to  have 
cloistered  her  spirit  from  the  world.  Never  very  fond  of  com 
pany,  his  decease  had  made  her  in  love  with  solitude,  and  she 
spent  much  of  her  time  in  her  own  chamber,  alone. 

She  was  wealthy,  having  inherited  from  her  husband  a  con 
siderable  property.  Muriel,  too,  was  rich  in  her  own  right ; 
Mr.  Eastman's  brother,  who  had  a  great  affection  for  her,  hav 
ing  died  a  bachelor  four  or  five  years  before,  and  left  her  a 
handsome  fortune. 

It  was  a  large,  sumptuously  furnished  house  they  lived  in. 
Into  its  library,  the  fresh  spring  light,  which  lay  so  palely  in 
the  long,  musty,  powder-scented  fencing-school,  streamed  that 
morning  through  crystal  and  purple  panes,  and  filled  the  per 
fumed  air  with  a  gold  and  violet  glory.  The  library  was  rich 
and  dark  in  color,  with  walnut  bookcases,  deep-toned  walls, 
and  violet-velvet  furniture.  'Its  prevailing  sombrous  hue  seemed 
to  confine  and  intensify  the  cheerful  radiance  which  filled  it, 
like  some  ethereal  lustrous  liquid  in  a  cup  of  ebony,  touching 
the  dim  gilding  of  the  picture-frames,  the  delicate  ornaments 
here  and  there,  and  resting  on  a  distinctive  feature  of  the 
apartment,  a  large  parlor  organ,  of  dark  oak  and  gold. 

But  the  library's  chief  ornament  that  morning  was  Muriel 
— as  lovely  a  blonde  as  ever  grew  to  the  gathered  grace  and 
vigor  of  twenty  summers,  and  with  that  pervading  glimmer 
of  natural  elegance  and  fine  courtly  breeding  in  her  loveliness, 
which  we  express  in  the  word  debonair.  She  was  standing 
very  still,  rapt  in  deep  musing,  with  an  open  volume  of  Dante 
held  in  her  left  palm,  and  her  white,  nervous  right  hand  rest- 


118  HARRINGTON. 

ing  on  the  page.  A  lilac  dress  of  some  soft  tissue,  stirred  only 
above  the  light  pulsations  of  her  bosom,  flowed  in  graceful 
folds,  as  she  stood  with  one  arched  foot  advanced  and  partly 
visible  at  its  margin,  and  revealed  the  enchanting  harmony  of 
her  tall  and  stately  figure.  The  dress  came  quite  up  to  the 
inrk,  flowering  over  there  in  a  charming  ruffle  of  lace,  above 
which  bloomed  her  exquisite  countenance,  virginal  and  gracious 
as  the  morning,  as  dewy-sweet,  as  fresh,  as  spiritually  pure.  The 
complexion,  fair  and  clear  as  a  pond-lily,  was  radiant  with  per 
fect  health.  Color,  faint  as  the  dawn,  tinted  the  oval  cheeks, 
and  the  sweet,  curved  mouth  wore  the  hue  of  the  wild-brier 
rose.  The  large  grey  eyes  were  softened  with  a  golden  sheen. 
Amber  hair,  with  a  tint  of  gold  in  it,  parted  over  the  serene 
and  open  brow,  and  rising  from  the  head,  as  we  see  it  in  the 
Greek  statues,  rippled  down  in  wavy  tresses  around  the  delicate 
cars,  to  gather  behind  in  soft,  thick  loops  of  antique  beauty. 
Noble  and  debonair  from -head  to  foot,  and  all  imparadised  in 
charm,  so  on  that  morning  stood  Muriel. 

Who  would  have  dreamed  that  the  reverie'  in  which  she 
was  absorbed  was  too  solemn  to  have  grown  upon  her  spirit 
from  the  mighty  Tuscan  page  before  her  ?  Who  could  have 
imagined,  gazing  upon  her  calm  loveliness,  that  a  great  and 
awful,  though  silent,  struggle  had  shaken  her  heart  ?  Yet  it 
was  so.  The  event  which  can  most  convulse  a  woman's  life 
had  come  to  her.  She  loved  Harrington,  and  it  had  dawned 
upon  her  that  he  loved  her  friend  Emily. 

She  had  met  it  bravely.  With  that  revelation  her  heart 
had  risen  to  the  level  of  heroic  story,  and  in  the  spiritual  strife 
which  makes  life  tremble  to  its  centre,  she  was  the  victor. 
She  knew  that  the  world  lay  lonely  and  disenchanted  before 
her,  but  she  was  calm.  She  knew  that  life's  fairest  hope  was 
unaccomplished,  life's  loveliest  dream  dissolved,  but  she  was 
strong.  She  saw  afar  the  dark  battalia  of  the  coming  years 
of  sadness,  and  her  heart  rose  to  meet  them  with  the  pulses  of 
Marathon.  It  was  love's  crowning  hour  with  her — the  hour 
of  sacrifice,  renunciation,  the  high  soul's  rapture  of  martyrdom 
— the  hour  of  bravery  and  sad,  generous  joy. 

But  now  the  immediate  strife  in  her  spirit  was  over,  and  in 


HARRINGTON.  1 19 

the  deeps  of  her  reverie,  she  saw,  strangely  distinct  as  in  a 
dream,  the  phantom  face  of  Harrington  smiling  palely  upon 
her  from  an  illimitable  distance.  It  had  never  before  been  so 
vivid  in  her  vision,  nor  had  it  ever  come  to  her  with  such  a 
sense  of  being  mystically  far-removed.  As  she  dreamed  upon 
it,  its  visionary  remoteness  seemed  less  a  symbol  of  the  dis 
tance  of  unanswering  love  than  of  love  immortal  withdrawn 
by  death  to  smile  upon  her  from  the  depths  of  Eternity.  But 
it  was  Love,  not  Death,  that  had  divided  them :  he  had  re 
ceded  from  her  to  love  her  friend.  She  was  resigned  that  it 
should  be  so — happy  still,  though  lonelier,  that  it  was  so. 
Hers  was  the  true  love  which  gives  and  needs,  but  asks  not  ; 
and  aspiring  only  to  the  happiness  and  good  of  the  beloved 
one,  willingly,  for  that,  resigns  all  that  makes  life  most  pre 
cious  and  finds  a  sad  joy  in  the  sacrifice.  It  was  her  loss,  but 
another's  gain.  There  was  joy  still  in  the  belief  that  he  was 
happy  in  his  love  for  her  friend — in  the  faith  that  she  was 
worthy  of  that  love — in  the  trust  that  the  lofty  purposes  for 
which  spirits  work  on  earth  in  wedded  lives  would  be  achieved 
by  them. 

Calm,  tender,  solemn  and  regal  flowed  her  reverie,  haunted 
ever  by  the  phantom  face  that  was  never  to  be  near  her  again 
— never  to  smile  henceforth  in  her  dreams  save  at  this  vision 
ary  distance,  which  seemed  to  her  prescient  spirit  ever  less  and 
less  the  distance  of  unanswered  love,  ever  more  and  more  the 
distance  of  love  responding  from  the  serene  depths  of  Eternity. 

"  Muriel  !" 

A  hushed,  wandering  voice  spoke  her  name.  A  figure  stood 
before  her  at  a  little  distance.  Voice  and  figure  were  alike 
remote  and  dim  to  her  tranced  mind. 

"  Muriel  !     Good  heavens  !  Muriel  1" 

It  was  Emily.  She  saw  her  standing  before  her,  astonished 
— she  herself  tranquil,  clearly  cognizant,  and  utterly  unsur 
prised.  A  superb  brunette,  attired  in  rich  brown  silk,  with  a 
brilliant  scarlet  scarf  on  her  shoulders,  admirably  contrasted 
with  her  dark  hair,  and  the  sunny  gold  and  rose  of  her  com 
plexion. 

"  Why,  Muriel,  you  frightened  me  !     I  spoke,  and  yet  you 


120  HARRINGTON. 

did  not  hear.  What  a  strange,  still  shine  there  is  in  your 
eyes  I  One  would  think  you  were  a  somnambulist." 

The  happy  and  noble  face  smiled  at  her  as  she  spoke,  and 
two  bright  tears  flowed  upon  it.  A  moment,  -and  the  book 
fell  to  the  floor,  and  embracing  Emily,  she  kissed  her  crimson 
mouth,  and  fondly  gazed  into  her  countenance.  At  tlie  pres 
sure  of  the  soft  bosom  against  her  own,  at  the  touch  of  the 
fragrant  and  dewy  lips,  Emily's  spirit  rose  in  fervent  affec 
tion,  and  in  that  moment  her  heart  clasped  Muriel  like  her 
arms. 

"  I  was  a  dreamer,  and  not  a  somnambulist,  dear  Emily," 
said  Muriel.  "  I  was  lost  in  a  reverie,  deeper  than  I  have 
ever  known,  and  it  gave  me  the  peace  of  a  holy  thought." 

"  What  was  the  thought,  dear  Muriel  ?"  asked  Emily. 

"  One  that  you  can  appreciate,  dear  lover,"  was  the  tender 
and  gay  reply.  "  The  thought  that  life  is  truliest  life  in  the 
greatness  and  sweetness  of  love." 

A  refluent  jealousy  vainly  strove  at  that  moment  to  enter 
the  heart  of  Emily.  The  charm  of  her  friend's  gracious  coun 
tenance,  and  of  her  mellow  silver  voice,  was  strong  upon  her. 
But  the  rich  color  came  to  her  golden  face  and  over  her  broad, 
low  brow  to  the  roots  of  her  hair,  and  her  lustrous  brown 
eyes  wandered  into  vacancy. 

"  Yes,  Muriel,"  she  answered,  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
"  I  agree  with  you.  Life  is  truliest  life  in  loving  and  being 
loved." 

"  No,  that  is  not  agreeing  with  me,"  said  Muriel,  with  a 
frank  smile.  "  Life  is  sufficiently  life  in  loving.  To  love  is 
enough. — But  come,  dear  Emily,  your  chocolate  voice  shall 
not  be  used  in  discussion,  but  in  confession.  We  must  talk 
this  morning,  for  I  fancy  you  have  some  little  grudge  against 
me,  and  it  is  time  for  us  to  understand  each  other,  like  good 
friends. 

Emily  colored  again,  and  the  tears  were  very  near  her  eyes. 
She  loved  Muriel,  yet  could  not  help  being  jealous  of  her, 
believing,  as  she  did,  that  she  was"  her  rival  for  the  love  of 
Wentworth.  Bat  she  laughed  lightly,  dissembling  her  emo 
tion,  and  asked  : 


HARRINGTON.  121 

"  Why  is  my  voice  a  chocolate  voice,  Muriel  ?  That  is  an 
odd  epithet." 

"  A  very  good  one,  dear,"  replied  Muriel,  laughing,  and 
picking  up  the  Dante  from  the  floor.  "  Your  voice  is  a  con 
tralto.  Sounds,  you  know,  have  their  analogical  colors,-  as 
Madame  de  Stael  knew  when  she  said  the  sound  of  the 
trumpet  was  crimson.  Now  the  analogue  of  contralto  is 
brown.  Chocolate,  too,  is  brown.  Hence  your  voice  is 
chocolate." 

"  Well  done,  Muriel !  Come,  now,  that  is  really  inge 
nious." 

Muriel  laughed  her  clear  and  mellow  silver  laugh,  and 
looked  playfully  at  Emily. 

"  Thank  you  for  the  compliment,  mignonne.  I  shall  make  it 
over  to  the  gentleman  from  whom  I  stole  the  idea." 

"  Stole  ?     It's  not  yours,  then  ?" 

"  0  yes  !     It's  mine,  because  I  stole  it." 

"  And  who  from  ?     Harrington  ?" 

"  Guess  again,  dear  !  But  n'importe — no  matter,  Come 
and  sit  here  with  me." 

Muriel  moved  smilingly  away  to  a  couch  of  violet-velvet, 
and  sinking  upon  the  cushioned  seat,  waved  her  hand  to  her 
friend.  Emily  stood  unheeding,  in  an  attitude  of  sumptuous 
repose,  with  her  rounded  arms  folded,  a  faint  smile  on  her 
face,  and  her  lustrous  and  lambent  eyes  half-veiled  by  their 
long  lashes.  The  damask  color  was  bright  on  her  cheeks  and 
on  her  parted  lips,  and  with  every  slow  breath,  her  bosom 
slowly  lifted  and  fell,  stirring  the  rich  and  heavy  attar-of-rose 
odor  which  brooded  slumberously  about  her  form. 

"Thou  gorgeous  queen-rose  of  Ispahan,  why  dreamest 
thou  ?"  said  Muriel's  voice  of  silver  mockery.  "  Didst  thou 
not  hear  me  call  ?  Come,  I  say  1" 

The  beautiful  brunette  did  not  obey,  but  raised  her  proud 
patrician  head  from  its  drooping  curve,  and  vaguely  sighed. 
Muriel  rose,  lightly  glided  over  to  her,  clasped  her  waist  with 
both  arms,  and  standing  a  little  on  one  side  and  bending  for 
ward — a  fresh  and  full-grown  lily — a  fair,  gay  woman,  with 
the  grace  and  glimmer  of  a  bewitching  child  in  her  woman- 

6 


122  HARRINGTON. 

hood — looked  with  a  naive  and  radiant,  half-mocking,  half- 
serious  smile,  into  the  face  of  her  she  had  called  the  gorgeous 
queen-rose  of  Ispahan.  Presently  she  began  to  lead  her  to 
the  couch.  Emily  held  back,  but  Muriel's  clasp  tightened,  and 
yielding  to  the  firm,  fairy  strength  with  which,  though  strong, 
she  was  unable  to  cope,  Emily  suffered  herself  to  be  conducted 
to  the  seat. 

"Ah,  stayaway,"  blithely  said  Muriel,  sitting  beside  her/ 
and  playfully  shaking  a  finger  at  her  in  sportive  reproach, 
"  who  is  the  stronger  now  ?  You  are  fairly  captured,  and  I 
hold  you  my  prisoner  until  peace  is  concluded." 

Emily,  amused  by  this  pleasantry,  showed  the  pearls  of  her 
red  mouth  in  a  brilliant  laugh  over  her  indolently  folded 
arms. 

"  And  if  you  could  only  fence,"  continued  Muriel,  in  the 
same  tone  as  before,  "  I  would  conquer  a  peace  at  the  point 
of  my  rapier.  Can't  I  persuade  you  to  learn,  for  that  especial 
purpose  ?" 

"  Indeed  you  can't,"  said  Emily.  "  It's  not  in  the  line  of 
my  accomplishments,  though  you  have  included  it  in  yours. 
Bless  me  !  Muriel,  what  will  you  be  learning  next  ?  Dancing 
on  the  tight-rope,  I  suppose,  or  standing  on  one  toe  on  the 
back  of  a  galloping  horse,  like  a  circus  girl." 

"  That  would  be  fine,  dear,  wouldn't  it  !"  returned  Muriel. 
"  Decidedly,  I  never  thought  of  the  tight-rope  or  the  circus 
horse  before.  It  is  really  an  idea  !  But  let  us  cry  truce  to 
this  nonsense,  for  indeed  I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

Moving  a  little  nearer  to  Eniily  as  she  spoke,  her  frolic 
manner  vanished,  and  her  face  grew  sweetly  serious. 

"  When  you  found  me  so  entranced  this  morning,"  she  said, 
after  a  long  pause,  "  I  was  thinking  of  you,  dear  Emily — in 
part  of  you.  You  know  how  much  I  love  you.  We  grew  up 
together  from  girlhood,  and  among  all  your  friends  there  is 
none  whose  happiness  is  more  closely  entwined  in  yours  than 
mine." 

Emily's  heart  beat  fast,  and  the  moisture  gathered  in  her 
down-dropped  eyes.  She  did  not  look  up,  but  she  felt  that  the 
clear  eyes  of  Muriel  were  fixed  on  her  face. 


HARRINGTON.  123 

"  We  have  liad  many  happy  hours  together,  Emily,"  mur 
mured  the  low,  sweet  voice  ;  "  and  when  you  came  here  two 
weeks  ago,  on  this  visit,  it  seemed  that  the  happiest  hours  of 
all,  both  for  you  and  me,  were  beginning.  Happiest  for  me 
because  I  thought  that  what  makes  life  sweetest  to  us  all  had 
come  to  you — here — in  this  house." 

There  was  another  pause,  in  which  Emily  bowed  her  head, 
with  an  inexpressible  sense  of  passionate  sorrow. 

"  And  it  has  come  to  you,  Emily,"  continued  Muriel.  "  You 
did  not  tell  me — you  kept  your  heart's  secret  closely — but  I 
saw  it — I  felt  it — though  I  so  strangely  mistook  its  object.  I 
did  not  think  my  intuition  could  so  mislead  me,  but  it  did. 
For  I  thought  your  feeling  was  for  Richard  and  his  for  you." 

Emily  smiled  serenely,  but  under  the  serene  smile  her  wild 
grief  raged. 

"  How  could  you  think  so,  Muriel  ?"  she  lightly  asked. 

"  I  judged  so  from  his  manner  toward  you,  and  yours  toward 
him,"  replied  Muriel. 

Emily  laughed  gaily. 

"  I  cannot  imagine,"  she  answered,  "  how  you  could  think 
his  attentions  meant  anything  more  than  the  ordinary  reckless 
gallantries  it  is  his  nature  to  lavish  on  young  women.  And  as 
for  myself,  I  should  indeed  be  weak  to  love  such  a  person 
as  he." 

She  said  it  with  the  most  bland  and  tranquil  indifference  of 
voice  and  manner — grief  and  scorn  and  the  wild  resentment  of 
slighted  love  all  hidden  and  raging  in  her  heart. 

"  Emily  !"  The  silver  voice  was  raised  in  mild  reproach, 
and  she  felt  the  nervous  hands  suddenly  clasp  her  arm.  "  How 
can  you  speak  so  of  Richard !  Indeed,  you  do  him  great 
injustice.  I  know  him  better  than  to  think  that  of  him. 
Emily,  you  amaze  me  !  Why,  how  can  you  imagine  him  such 
a  person  !" 

Emily  smiled  blandly.  She  may  well  defend  him,  was  her 
thought,  for  she  loves  him.  Calmly  lifting  her  lustrous  eyes, 
she  saw  Muriel's  wondering  face  all  suffused  with  generous 
color.  Yes,  she  thought,  it  is  her  love  for  him. 

"  Why  Muriel,"  she  remarked  quietly,  "  everybody  knows 


124  HARRINGTON. 

he  is  a  handsome  young  flirt.  It  is  his  general  reputation. 
His  words,  his  looks,  his  manner  toward  women  are  proof 
enough  of  it,  I'm  sure.  Nobody  thinks  more  highly  of  him 
than  Fernando,  but  even  Fernando,  spite  of  his  friendship, 
says  it  is  the  great  fault  of  his  character." 

Muriel  laughed  suddenly,  then  looked  very  grave. 

"  I'm  afraid,  Emily,"  she  said  quickly,  "  that  it  is  Fer 
nando  who  has  put  this  strange  and  ridiculous  idea  into  your 
head." 

"  Not  at  all,"  quietly  responded  Emily.  "  Fernando  only 
corroborates  my  own  judgment.  But  if  you  cannot  trust  the 
opinion  of  a  man's  intimate  friends  and  associates,  what  can 
you  trust  ?" 

"  I  would  not  trust  Fernando's  opinion  of  anybody,"  said 
Muriel. 

"  Why  ?"  asked  Emily,  coolly. 

"  Why,  dear  ?  Because  our  good  Fernando  is  nothing  if 
not  critical,"  piquantly  answered  Muriel. 

"  Do  you  think  him  false  ?"  said  Emily. 

"  Hum  !"  Muriel  looked  doubtful— then  laughed.  "  To 
tell  the  truth,  mignonne,  I  think  he  is,  on  a  small  scale,  the 
lago  of  private  life." 

"  You  are  witty,  Muriel,  but  you  are  not  just,"  was  Emily's 
cold  reply. 

Muriel  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"  Never  mind,"  she  resumed.  "  We  will  not  discuss  Fer 
nando.  You  will  yet  think  better  of  Richard,  I  am  confi 
dent,  but  as  you  are  not  in  love  with  him,  it's  no  matter." 

As  I  am  not  in  love  with  him!  thought  Emily.  She  could 
hardly  keep  from  shuddering  with  the  flood  of  conflicting  pas 
sion  that  shot  through  her.  The  wild  impulse  to  tell  Muriel 
that  she  had  cast  her  life  upon  him,  burst  into  her  mind. 
What?  Tell  her  that  she  loved  him,  and  that  he  had  slighted 
her  love  ;  that  he  had  won  her  heart  from  her  ;  that  once,  in 
one  electric  moment,  his  arms  had  enfolded  her,  his  lips  had 
pressed  hers,  and  then,  his  whim  gratified,  he  had  left  un 
spoken  the  words  her  soul  panted  to  hear,  and  coldly  alienated 
himself  from  her!  Tell  all  this  to  her,  whom  he  was  now  woo- 


HABRINGTON.  125 

ing,  and  who  loved  him  1  Passionate  pride  arose,  and  held  the 
impulse  down. 

"Yes,  I  own  that  I  was  mistaken,"  pursued  Muriel, 
"  strangely  mistaken,  in  dreaming  that  you  and  Richard  were 
lovers.  Still,  there  was  love.  It  is  my  joy  to  think  that  you 
love  another  dear  friend  of  mine,  and  that  he  loves  you.  And 
my  joy  is  all  the  greater  to  feel  that  you  are  above  our  social 
prejudices — that  you  are  great  enough  to  love  one  whose 
wealth  is  in  his  manhood.  You  and  Harrington  " 

Emily  turned  quickly,  her  face  calm,  but  all  aglow  with 
rich  scarlet,  and  lighted  with  an  indefinable  smile.  Muriel, 
pale  with  love  and  sacrifice,  her  clear  voice  trembling,  and  her 
eyes  humid,  stopped  as  she  met  that  singular  look,  and  changed 
color. 

"  Forgive  me,  dear  Emily,"  she  said  quickly.  "  I  would  not 
speak  of  it — I  would  not  touch  a  subject  cloistered  even  from 
me — but  for  one  reason,  which  I  will  tell  you  presently.  But 
first  let  me  say  that  I  was  again  surprised  when  I  read  in  your 
mutual  attentions  for  the  last  few  days — yours  and  Harring 
ton's — the  tokens  of  your  love.  For  I  had  thought  Harring 
ton's  heart  was  not  free — that  he  loved  another.  Now  let 
me" 

"Who?"  interrupted  Emily.  "Who  did  you  think  he 
loved  ?  Tell  me.  I  am  curious  to  know." 

"  Nay,  dear,"  replied  Muriel.  "It  would  )?e  unnecessary 
to  tell  that.  Since  I  was  wrong,  is  it  not  better  to  let  it  go 
unmeutioned  ?  Surely  it  is." 

Perhaps  Emily  might  have  guessed  who  it  was,  had 
she  looked  then  at  Muriel's  face.  But  her  eyes  were  down 
cast,  and  she  was  vainly  striving  to  imagine  who  Muriel 
could  mean.  Then  the  remembrance  of  how  constant  and 
reckless  had  been  her  recent  attentions  to  Harrington, 
and,  though  paid  only  to  abate  Wentworth's  supposed 
triumph  by  convincing  him  that  she  cared  nothing  for  him, 
how  good  a  ground  they  afforded  to  Muriel  for  her  present 
belief,  came  into  her  mind,  and  she  almost  groaned.  But  what 
would  have  been  her  grief  had  she  dreamed  of  the  effects  of 
her  conduct  on  Muriel  ? 


126  HARRINGTON. 

"  Now,  dear  Emily,"  resumed  Muriel,  "  let  me  come  at  once 
to  the  only  sad  thing  in  all  this — in  a  word,  to  the  reason 
which  compels  me  to  speak  thus  frankly  to  you  for  the  sake  of 
our  friendship,  which  I  cannot  bear  to  see  disturbed  even  for 
an  hour.  You  know  I  have  known  John  for  a  long  time,  and 
that  he  is  my  best,  my  most  cherished  friend.  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  much  he  has  been  and  is  to  me — with  how  many 
noble  hours  he  is  associated.  Since  I  have  thought  you  loved 
him,  I  have  been  conscious — painfully  conscious — that  your 
manner  has  not  been  what  it  once  was  to  me — that  you  have 
felt  our  communion — his  and  mine — as  something  that  inter 
fered  with  your  relation  to  him." 

Muriel  paused,  earnestly  gazing  in  the  face  of  her  friend,  to 
be  certain  that  she  was  not  offending  her.  The  hot  color 
suffused  Emily's  face,  but  she  was  calm  and  even  smiled.  Yes, 
I  am  jealous  of  her,  was  her  thought,  but  it  is  because  she 
loves  Wentworth  and  he  her.  And  she  thinks  I  love  Har 
rington  1  Then  came  the  impulse  to  undeceive  Muriel  in  this 
regard.  Pride  arose  on  one  side,  taunting  her  to  confess  that 
she  had  paid  court  to  a  man  she  did  not  love.  Shame  arose 
on  the  other  side,  urging  her  to  conceal  the  thoughtless  folly 
of  having  lured  that  man  to  love  her.  Both  together  held 
the  impulse  down. 

"Dear  Emily,"  pursued  Muriel,  in  tender  and  pleading 
tones,  "  do  not  let  this  be  so.  Do  not  think  of  me  as  your 
rival  because  I  am  your  lover's  friend.  There  cannot  be  in 
our  relation — his  and  mine — anything  to  weaken  his  faith  to 
you.  Oh,  believe  that,  and  let  there  be  no  discord  between 
you  and  me  !  There,  I  have  said  all.  I  might  have  waited 
till  he  or  you  told  me  that  you  were  lovers.  But  I  could  not 
bear  to  see  you  tortured  with  the  feeling  that  there  was 
rivalry  between  us,  or  to  see  our  friendship  in  any  way  impaired. 
Forgive  me  for  my  haste — for  my  brusque  plain-speaking  ; 
and  love  me  truly  as  I  love  you." 

Leaning  over  to  her,  as  she  ended,  Muriel,  the  bright  tears 
welling  from  her  eyes,  embraced  her  tenderly.  Emily,  smiling 
wanly,  her  brain  whirling  with  affection,  with  self-scorn  and 
passionate  despair,  clasped  the  loving  form  to  her  breast,  and 


HABKINGTON.  127 

held  it  there.  In  a  few  moments  Muriel  disengaged  herself, 
her  happy  and  noble  face  radiant,  but  wet  with  tears,  smiled 
at  Emily,  and  smiling,  rose  and  glided  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  V. 

LA     BOSTON  IENN  E. 

EMILY  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  for  more  than 
fifteen  minutes  sat  in  silent  stupor  where  Muriel  had  left  her. 
At  length  she  sprang  up,  throwing  her  clenched  hands  from 
her  in  agony,  and  walked  the  library.  Her  eyes  were  hotly 
lustrous,  her  damask  cheeks  vivid  with  heightened  color,  her 
parted  lips  wore  an  unnatural  bloom,  and  the  flush  of  fever 
deepened  the  sunny  gold  of  her  complexion.  Slowly,  with 
measured  steps,  to  and  fro,  up  and  down,  she  paced  the  room, 
with  rustling  robes,  like  a  doomed  Sultana. 

"  Great  Heaven  1"  she  murmured,  stopping  suddenly  in  the 
centre  of  the  floor,  and  clasping  her  hands  ;  "  to  know  that 
it  has  come  to  this  !  She  thinks  I  love  Harrington.  How 
shall  I  undeceive  her  !  How  shall  I  undeceive  him  !  How 
extricate  myself  from  this  maze  I  0,  for  a  friend,  a  counsel 
lor  !  Richard,  Richard,  how  can  you  treat  me  so  basely  1 
To  turn  from  me — and  in  my  very  sight  to  turn  from  me  to 
her  !  0,  that  I  could  die,  that  I  could  die  !" 

Wringing  her  clasped  hands,  a  wild  heart-break  in  her  face, 
she  heard  a  light  step  in  the  passage.  The  door  opened,  and 
Muriel  reappeared,  gay  and  elegant  as  usual,  and  bending  into 
a  graceful  courtesy,  half  playful,  half  unconscious,  as  she  came 
forward.  As  for  Emily,  no  one  could  have  discovered  a  trace 
of  emotion  in  her.  At  the  sound  of  Muriel's  footsteps,  she 
had  dissolved  into  a  sumptuous  beauty,  with*a  rich,  indolent 
smile  on  her  brilliant-colored  face,  her  bare,  rounded  arms 
folded  on  her  bosom,  and  her  figure  in  nonchalant  and  queenly 
repose. 


128  HARRINGTON. 

"  Ah,  neglectful  one,"  said  Muriel,  shaking  a  finger  at  her, 
"to  let  your  moulding  drop  to  pieces  for  lack  of  a  little 
water  !  I  told  you  yesterday  that  you  ought  to  wet  the  clay. 
Just  now  I  looked  into  the  studio,  and  saw  the  poor  Muriel 
almost  crumbling.  Thou  naughty  girl  1" 

"  I  declare  I  forgot  it,"  replied  Emily.  "  I  meant  to  water 
the  bust  yesterday,  and  it  slipped  my  mind.  I  will  see  to  it 
presently." 

"  If  you  don't,  I'll  never  give  you  another  sitting,"  returned 
Muriel.  "  So  take  notice." 

All  sorts  of  studies  and  arts  were  pursued  at  the  house  in 
Temple  street.  Muriel,  amidst  her  botany,  drawing,  moulding, 
music,  Latin,  French,  German,  Italian,  miscellaneous  reading, 
and  her  vigorous  calisthenics,  had  for  a  year  past  interpolated 
the  art  of  fencing,  which  Harrington  had  taught  her,  and 
which  was  at  present  her  grand  passion.  Emily,  who  had 
been  absent  at  Chicago  for  the  last  ten  months,  had  previously 
learned  from  Wentworth  and  Muriel  how  to  mould  in  clay, 
and  upon  her  return,  urged  on  chiefly  by  him,  had  resumed 
this  crowning  accomplishment  of  hers,  and  began  to  develop 
in  it  unusual  talent.  The  bust  referred  to  was  one  of  Muriel, 
which  she  had  been  working  on.  Lately,  the  check  she  had 
received  in  her  love  for  Wentworth,  had  sadly  damped  the 
ardor  of  her  passion  for  sculpture,  and  the  bust  had  been 
neglected. 

"  Don't  let  your  belief  in  Wentworth's  flirtations  interfere 
with  your  pursuit  of  the  fine  arts,  mignonne,"  continued  Muriel, 
gaily. 

"  Dear  me,  no  1"  languidly  returned  Emily.  "  His  flirta 
tions  are  nothing  to  me." 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Muriel,  sportively  patting  her  on  the 
shoulder.  "  And  as  you  owe  the  bad  boy  a  debt  of  gratitude 
for  showing  you  how  to  mould,  be  civil  to  him,  I  pray." 

"  Civil  ?  And  am  I  not  civil  to  him  ?"  returned  Emily, 
smiling  with  laz^  serenity. 

"  Ah,  wicked  one,  no,"  said  Muriel,  silverly  murmuring  the 
words  into  Emily's  ear,  as  she  stood  behind  her  with  her  arms 
around  her  waist,  and  her  face  looking  jestingly  over  her 


HARRINGTON.  129 

"  Not  a  bit  civil.  Didn't  I  see  that  freak  of  the 
violets  this  morning  !  I  know  that  hurt  Richard's  feelings. 
Not  because  you  did  not  give  them  to  him,  but  on  account  of 
your  manner,  which  was  indescribably  disdainful.  I  verily 
believe  Fernando  had  something  to  do  with  that  transaction. 
What  was  it  he  said  to  you  at  the  table  when  I  saw  you 
color  ?" 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  replied  Emily,  blushing.  "  It  was  some 
thing  he  meant  for  a  joke,  though  I  thought  it  rather  impu 
dent.  To  tell  the  truth,  Muriel,  I  did  intend  to  share  the 
violets  between  Harrington  and  Wentworth,  when  Fernando 
observed  to  me  that  Wentworth  would  be  delighted  to 
receive  a  true-love  posy  from  me,  or  something  of  that  sort. 
Now  that  provoked  me,  and  I  knew  Wentworth  had  put  him 
up  to  say  it,  for  I  saw  them  whispering  and  laughing  together 
just  before,  and  I  " 

"  My  dear  Emily,"  said  Muriel,  in  a  beseeching  tone,  com 
ing  around  in  front  of  the  speaker,  "  how  can  you  be  so  un 
reasonable  as  to  jump  to  such  a  conclusion  ?" 

"  Oh  !  I  know  he  had  something  to  do  with  it,"  returned 
Emily,  obstinately  ;  "  so  I  just  punished  him  by  giving  all  the 
flowers'  to  Harrington.  I  know  it  piqued  him,  and  I'm  glad 
of  it." 

Muriel  sighed,  and  then  laughed,  feeling  painfully  the  little 
ness  of  this  conduct,  yet  excusing  Emily  out  of  her  sense  of 
the  provocation  of  Witherlee. 

"  N'importe,  Emily  dear,"  she  said  lightly,  after  a  pause. 
"It  matters  not.  But  I  blame  Fernando  for  it  all.  I  am 
not  unjust  to  him,  for  I  appreciate  his  power  and  talents,  and 
very  often  find  him  agreeable  enough.  But  I  do  not  like  his 
carping  and  cavilling  and  the  envious  spirit  of  him,  and  I  can 
not  help  thinking  that  he  is  untruthful,  and  given  to  mischief- 
making.  What  he  said  to  you  was  really  impudent — and,  by 
the  way,  it  was  quite  matched  by  the  impudence  of  his  joining 
us  this  morning,  uninvited,  and  so  coolly  walking  into  the 
house  with  us  unasked.  If  I  had  not  been  amused  at  it,  I 
should  have  been  indignant.  It  was  a  cool  proceeding,  faith, 
— positively  arctic." 

6* 


130  HARRINGTON. 

Muriel  paused  to  laugh  delightedly  at  the  drollery  of  the 
recollection. 

"  However,  let  it  all  go,"  she  continued.  "  Only,  Emily, 
beware  of  being  influenced  by  Fernando.  That's  good  coun 
sel.  For  my  part,  if  I  catch  him  at  any  of  his  tricks,  we  shall 
quarrel  outright.  I  believe  I  never  quarrelled  with  anybody 
in  my  life,  and  perhaps  the  experience  may  be  refreshing. 
But  come — business  before  pleasure.  What  are  you  going  to 
do  to-day?  I  must  go  on  a  tour — will  you  come  with 
me?" 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  asked  Emily. 

"  First  and  foremost,  I  am  on  a  Pardiggle  excursion  among 
two  or  three  families  of  my  parish,"  replied  Muriel. 

Dickens7  "  Bleak  House,"  was  coming  out  in  serials  at  that 
period,  and  Muriel,  with  the  rest  of  the  town,  was  full  of  it, 
and  was  particularly  delighted  with  Mrs.  Pardiggle,  to  whom 
she  jestingly  likened  herself  when  she  made  visits  of  charity. 

"  The  Pardiggle  path  will  first  lead  me  to  poor  Mrs.  Roux," 
continued  Muriel.  "  Mrs.  Roux,  in  Southac  street,  the  wife  of 
the  colored  man  who  was  here  the  other  day  to  white-wash 
the  studio.  She  had  another  child  born  a  couple  of  months 
ago — did  I  tell  you  ? — and  we  must  take  care  of  the*  black 
babies  as  well  as  the  white  ones,  you  know,  and  the  black 
mothers,  too,  as  well  as  the  white  mothers,  most  gorgeous 
honey-darling." 

Emily  smiled  at  the  pet  name  Muriel  bestowed  upon .  her, 
admiringly  gazing  meanwhile  at  the  fair  face,  half  arch,  half 
serious,  which  looked  at  her  over  the  lace  ruffle. 

"  Poor  Roux  was  very  sick  in  March,"  continued  Muriel, 
"  and  has  only  got  to  work  again  recently — so  as  times  are 
hard  with  them,  mother  and  I  have  taken  them  under  our 
wing." 

"  How  did  you  find  them  out,  Muriel  ?"  asked  Emily. 

"  Oh,  through  Harrington,"  answered  her  friend.  "  Har 
rington  is  the  general  repository  of  the  grievances  and  troubles 
of  everybody  he  falls  in  with,  and  when  he  can't  help,  he  tells 
us,  and  we  help.  We  are  a  Pardiggle  society.  He  is  the 
President,  and  mother  and  I  are  the  BoarS  of  Directors." 


HARRINGTON.  131 

"  I  have  a  mind  to  become  a  member,"  said  Emily,  smilingly. 
"  But  where  next  ?" 

"  Next,"  answered  Muriel,  "  I  am  going  to  make  a  call  on 
the  Tenehans.  That's  an  Irish  family  in  North  Russell  street. 
Then  there  is  Judith,  the  sempstress,  for  whom  I  have  some 
sewing.  Let's  see  —  that's  all  to-day,  I  believe.  Then  I'm 
going  to  see  Captain  Greatheart." 

"Who's  that  ?"  interrupted  Emily. 

"  Mr.  Parker,  of  course." 

"  Mr.  Parker  ?     Pray  what  entitles  a  lawyer  to  that  Bunyan- 


"  A  lawyer  !  Bless  me,  Emily,  where  are  your  five  wits  ! 
It  is  the  Mr.  Parker  I  mean  —  Theodore  Parker.  And  is  he 
not  a  model  Captain  Greatheart?  The  nineteenth  century 
Apollyon  has  reason  to  know  him  in  that  character,  at  all 
events.  So  too  have  the  poor  Christians  and  Christianas,  for 
whom  he  is  guarding  shield  and  smiting  sword." 

Emily  bowed  her  head  in  assenting  abstraction. 

"  I'm  going  to  see  if  he  has  in  his  library  a  book  I  want," 
continued  Muriel.  "  Then,  perhaps,  I'll  go  to  the  Athena3iim, 
and  refresh  my  art-sense  —  no  I  won't  either,  for  I  remember 
Fernando  said  he  would  be  there,  and  I  can't  enjoy  pictures 
with  his  everlasting  cavilling  in  my  ears." 

"  Fernando  has  exquisite  tastes,"  said  Emily,  musingly. 

"  Fernando  has  exquisite  distastes,"  returned  Muriel,  pi- 
quantly.  "  Which  I  shall  not  enjoy  this  morning.  So  instead 
of  the  Athenaeum,  I'll  go  to  the  Anti-Slavery  Convention  at 
the  Melodeon.  Uncle  Lemuel  was  here  last  evening,  you 
know,  talking  up  Union-saving  and  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law, 
and  Mr.  Webster,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  and  I  shan't  feel 
right  again  till  I  hear  the  voices  of  the  Good  Old  Cause  from 
the  platform  of  the  Garrisonians." 

"  Well,  Muriel,  you  are  the  most  astonishing  Bostonienne  I 
know,"  said  Emily,  laughing.  "  I  should  just  like  to  analyze 
your  melange.  Let's  see  now.  In  the  first  place,  you  defy 
fashion,  and  insist  on  wearing  dresses  that  show  your  shape, 
when  all  the  rest  of  us  are  swaddled  in  half  a  dozen  starched 


132  HARRINGTON. 

petticoats,  and  are  pining  in  secret  for  the  hoops  of  our  grand 
mothers  to  come  into  vogue  again .  You  " 

"  How  many  have  you  on,  honey-bird  ?  Come,  '  'fess,'  as 
Topsy  says,"  demanded  Muriel,  mischievously. 

"1?  Oh,  I'm  moderate,"  returned  Emily.  "  I  only  wear 
six." 

Muriel  put  up  her  hands,  orbed  her  mouth,  and  opened  her 
large  eyes  in  mock  horror. 

"  Goodness  me  !"  said  Emily,  laughing  and  smoothing  her 
bounteous  skirts,  "  Six  is  nothing.  Why  everybody  wears, 
seven.  Eight  and  nine  are  not  uncommon.  And  there'* 
Bertha  Appleby  wears  twelve." 

Muriel  burst  into  low,  silver  laughter,  in  which  she  was 
joined  by  her  friend. 

"  To  resume,"  continued  Emily  when  the  mirth  had  sub 
sided,  "  you  won't  wear  low-necked  dresses  at  parties.  You 
don't  waltz.  You  don't  flirt.  You  don't  care  to  be  admired. 
You  don't  run  after  the  lions.  You  pay  court  to  all  the 
taboo  people,  visit  those  who  are  voted  out  of  good  society, 
ask  them  to  visit  you  " 

"  And  cry  '  a  bas  la  Madame  Grundy,' "  put  in  Muriel,  with 
a  free  and  frolic  toss  of  her  arm. 

"  Yes,  and  cry,  '  down  with  Mrs.  Grundy,' "  continued 
Emily.  "  Then  you  cultivate  the  most  miscellaneous  and  out 
landish  set  of  characters — authors  and  actors,  and  actresses, 
and  reformers,  and  clergymen,  and  musicians  and  comeouters 
and  people  respectable  and  disrespectable  all  meet  here,  hig 
gledy-piggledy,  in  the  most  heterogeneous  mixture — the  most 
chaotic  " 

"  0  no,  Emily  dear,  not  chaotic,"  interposed  Muriel,  "  not 
chaotic  but  cosmic.  I  accept  them  all  as  Nature  accepts  them 
all.  Down  with  the  walls  !  That's  my  principle.  No  castes 
— no  factitious  distinctions.  Let  fine  people  of  all  sorts  come 
together  and  learn  to  know  each  other.  Democracy  for 
ever!" 

"  Yes,  indeed — but  doesn't  good  society  get  horrified  at  your 
doings  !"  laughingly  exclaimed  Emily  "  Doesn't  the  whole 


HAEEINGTON. 


133 


neighborhood  hold  up  its  hands  at  you  ?  Why,  your  aristo 
cratic  acquaintance  look  at  you  with  perfect  horror." 

"Well,"  rejoined  Muriel,  with  nonchalant  gaiety,  "you 
know  what  Mercutio  says  :  '  Their  eyes  were  made  to  see  and 
let  them  look.' " 

"  And  then  your  studies,"  ran  on  Emily.  "  Perfectly  om 
nivorous.  French,  German,  Italian,  Latin,  music,  drawing, 
painting,  rnqulding,  science,  poetry,  history,  oratory,  philoso 
phy,  Shakspeare,  Bacon,  Dante,  Plato,  Goethe,  Swedenborg." 

"  And  Fourier,"  interpolated  Muriel.  "  Pve  added  him  to 
my  list,  you  know,  and  Uncle  Lemuel  says  I  ought  to  blush  to 
own  that  I  read  him.  The  poor  man  thinks  Fourier  had  hoofs 
and  horns  and  a  harpoon  tail." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  rejoined  Emily  with  a  laugh.  "  He  says 
such  works  loosen  the  foundations  of  society  and  are  fatal  to 
the  interests  of  morality,"  she  added,  mimicking  Uncle  Lemuel's 
stock  phrases,  which  he  used .  in  common  with  a  great  many 
people  of  the  highest  respectability.  "  But  to  resume,  Muriel: 
there  are  your  muscularities.  You  skate,  you  swim,  you 
climb  mountains,  you  ride  horseback,  you  walk  ten  miles  on  a 
stretch,  you  saddle  or  harness  your  horse  like  a  stableman,  you 
catch  up  your  horse's  feet,  and  look  at  the  shoes  like  a  black 
smith,  you  dance,  you  row,  you  lift  weights,  you  swing  by  your 
hands,  you  walk  on  the  parallel  poles  " 

"And  fence,"  suggested  the  amused  listener.  "Don't  for 
get  the  fencing  !" 

"Yes,  and  fence  with  Wentworth  and  Harrington,  besides 
turning  the  studio  up-stairs  into  a  gymnasium.  Then  you  go 
on  these  tours,  as  you  call  them.  You  have  a  regular 
parish  of  negroes  and  Irish  people,  and  all  sorts  of  forlorn 
characters,  on  whom  you  shower  food,  and  clothes,  and 
books,  and  goodness  knows  what  else.  And  you  go  to 
theatres,  circuses,  operas,  lectures,  picture-galleries,  woman's 
rights  conventions,  abolition  meetings,  political  gatherings  of 
all  sorts  at  Faneuil  Hall,  with  the  most  delectable  impar 
tiality.  Then  you  used  to  attend  church  at  William  Henry 
Channing's,  which  our  best  society  thought  horrid." 

"  And  now  Theodore  Parker's  " 


134:  HARRINGTON. 

"  Yes,  and  now  Theodore  Parker's,  which  they  think  worse 
still.  And  you  have  harbored  fugitive  slaves  in  your  house, 
and  helped  them  off  to  Canada.  And  you  swallow  Garrison 
and  Parker  Pillsbury  " 

"  And  adore  Wendell  Phillips." 

"  Yes,  and  adore  Wendell  Phillips.  And  subscribe  for  the 
'  Commonwealth '  newspaper,  which  your  uncle  says  ought  to 
be  put  down  " 

"And  the  'Liberator/" 

"  Yes,  and  subscribe  for  Garrison's  '  Liberator/  which  is 
your  uncle's  bete  noire.  In  short,  Muriel,  I  wonder  how  you 
keep  your  popularity.  I'm  sure  I  couldn't  do  all  that  you  do, 
and  have  these  cozy  old  citizens,  these  formal  and  fashion 
able  mammas,  these  mutton-chop  whiskered,  English-mannered 
gentlemen,  and  Beacon  street  belladonnas,  so  fond  of  me  as 
they  are  of  you.  But  then,  I  suppose  they  don't  know  the 
extent  of  your  heresies." 

"  My  dear  Emily,"  returned  Muriel,  "  please  to  remember 
that  you're  from  the  rural  districts.  You  live  at  Cambridge 
half  the  year,  and  you've  been  off  there  in  Chicago  for  the 
last  ten  months,  so  you  don't  know  how  many  Boston  ladies 
do  all,  or  nearly  all,  that  I  do.  I'm  not  half  such  an  original  as 
you  imagine.  But  see  here,  bird  of  Paradise,  time  passes. 
Are  you  going  with  me,  or  not?  I'll  go  anywhere,  or  do  any 
thing  you  like,  after  the  Pardiggle  excursion  is  over.  That 
must  be  attended  to,  anyway." 

Before  Emily  could  reply,  the  door  opened,  and  Mrs.  East 
man  came  in.  A  beautiful,  fair-complexioned,  gentle  lady,  of 
middle  age,  with  silver-grey  hair  falling  in  graceful  tresses 
beside  her  face.  As  beautiful  in  her  waning  day  as  Muriel  in 
her  matin  prime. 

"  Not  gone  yet,  dear,"  she  said,  with  a  bright  smile. 

"  Just  going,  mother." 

"  Well  the  carriage  is  below,  and  here  is  little  Charles  come 
to  say  that  Mrs.  Roux  is  rather  poorly.  And  he  says,  dear, 
which  I  hope  is  not  true,  that  some  of  those  dreadful  men  are 
in  town." 

Muriel's  face  grew  grave,  and  she  flew  to  the  door. 


HARRINGTON.  135 

"  Charles!"  she  called.     "  Come  up-stairs,  Charles." 

"Yes,  Miss  Eas'man.  Comin'  right  up,  Miss  Eas'man," 
chirruped  a  shrill,  smart  voice,  from  below,  followed  by  the 
softened  bounce  of  feet  on  the  carpeted  flight,  coming  up  two 
stairs  at  a  time. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  asked  the  wondering  Emily. 

"The  kidnappers,"  returned  Muriel.     "  Come  in,  Charles." 

A  most  astonishing  fat  negro  boy  entered,  cap  in  hand, 
ducking  and  bowing,  with  a  scrape  of  his  foot,  and  showing  a 
saucy  row  of  splendid  white  teeth  in  the  droll  grin  which 
expanded  his  big  mouth  and  nostrils ;  his  great  eyes  mean 
while  revolving  rapidly  around  the  library,  and  momently 
vanishing  in  their  whites  with  a  facility  curious  to  behold. 
His  face,  surmounted  by  a  mass  of  ashen-colored  wool,  parted 
on  one  side  into  two  great  shocks,  was  exactly  the  shape  of  a 
huge  d'AngouIeme  pear,  the  great  blobber  cheeks  making  the 
forehead,  which  was  respectably  large,  seem  small.  His  com 
plexion  was  a  clean,  warm,  dark  grey.  He  was  not  tall  for  his 
age,  which  was  about  ten  years,  but  he  was  broad.  Breadth 
was  the  characteristic  of  his  figure.  His  short  arms  were 
broad;  his  short  legs  were  broad;  his  body  was  broad;  and  he 
broadened  his  face  at  present  with  a  grin.  He  had  big  feet, 
clad  in  battered  old  shoes;  and  big  hands,  which  just  now 
played  with  his  cap.  He  wore  a  grey  jacket  thrown  back 
from  his  fat  chest,  which  was  covered  with  a  blue  and  white 
small-striped  shirt;  and  his  legs  were  incased  in  grey  trowsers. 
Grey,  in  fact,  was  the  prevailing  color  of  him  all  over.  The 
face  was  intelligent,  and  full  of  precocity,  assurance,  and 
supreme  self-importance,  .with  what  people  call  a  little-old- 
man-look  pervading  it  all,  though  this  was  only  seen  when  he 
was  in  his  grave  moods,  and  now  was  not  visible. 

"  What  is  it,  Charles  ?"  anxiously  asked  Muriel. 

"  Please,  Miss  Eas'man,"  he  began,  suddenly  stopping  his 
grin,  and  looking  preternaturally  demure,  with  a  portentous 
roll  of  his  saucer  eyes,  "  please,  Miss  Eas'man,  I  jus'  run  up 
here  like  a  bob-tail  nag  for  to  say — to  wit,  that  Brudder 
Baby  is  fus'  rate;  so  is  Josey;  so  is  Torn;  so  is  I;  so  is  father; 
and  mar  isji't  not  'nearly  so  well,  an'  she  feels  right  bad 


136  HARRINGTON. 

lest  father  should  be  took  off,  an'  them  kidnappers  is  in  town, 
an'  we'll  all  be  took  off,  jus'  so  sure's  my  name's  Tugmutton, 
Miss  Eas'man — yes,  Miss  Eas'man,  there  aint  no  sort  of  a 
chance  for  us  anyway,  jus'  so  sure  as  you're  born." 

Having  delivered  himself  in  shrill,  fluent  tones,  to  this  effect, 
the  young  imp  grinned  cheerfully,  and  stood  rapidly  twirling 
his  cap  on  his  hand  like  a  pin-wheel,  and  rolling  his  eyes  at 
the  three  ladies.  Muriel  looked  at  him  with  a  still  face,  but 
Mrs.  Eastman  smiled,  and  Emily,  who  had  seen  him  once  be 
fore,  laughed  amusedly. 

"  What  an  odd  creature  he  is,"  said  the  latter.  "  To  think 
of  his  preferring  to  be  called  by  that  droll  name  ?  Don't  you 
like  to  be  called  Charles  ?"  she  asked,  addressing  the  boy. 

"  Like  it  extrornerly,  Miss  Ames — never  git  done  likin' 
that  name  noways,  Miss  Ames,"  he  asseverated,  with  great 
earnestness.  "  But  you  see,  Miss  Ames,  'taint  so  familiar  like 
as  Tugmutton.  Father  calls  me  Tugmutton,  an'  mar,  an' 
Josey,  an'  Tom,  an'  everbody,  since  I  was  knee-high  to  a 
toad,  Miss  Ames.  Tugmutton 's  my  Christian  name,  Miss 
Ames,  and  Charles  's  my  given  name  as  Miss  Eas'man  give 
me,  Miss  Ames." 

"  Look  here,  Charles,"  said  Muriel,  suddenly,  "  are  you  sure 
the  kidnappers  are  in  town  ?" 

"  Dead  sure,  Miss  Eas'man— jus'  as  sure  as  can  be." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?    Who  told  you  ?" 

"  Laws  !  Miss  Eas'man  1  Why  it's  in  the  newspaper  !" 
blurted  out  the  imp,  rolling  up  the  whites  of  his  eyes  at  her 
with  a  look  of  amazed  reproach. 

"  0,  no,  Charles  !  It's  not  in  the  newspaper,  for  IVe  read 
the  papers  this  morning,"  said  Muriel,  smiling,  and  shaking  her 
finger  at  him. 

Tugmutton  looked  demure  for  a  second,  then  smiled  sheep 
ishly,  furtively  rolled  his  eyes  one  side  at  the  wall,  and  fidgeted 
on  his  feet,  and  with  his  cap  and  jacket. 

"  Laws,  Miss  Eas'man  !  it's  goin'  to  be  in  the  paper.  Paper 
'11  be  chock  full  of  it  to-morrow." 

"  0,  I  guess  it's  not  true,"  said  Muriel,  slowly,  with  a  re 
lieved  smile.  "  It  must  be  a  false  alarm,  Charles." 


HARKINGTON.  137 

"  My  gosh,  Miss  Eas'man,  I  don't  believe  there's  one  word 
of  truth  in  it,"  said  Tugnmtton,  puckering  out  his  great  lips 
with  an  air  of  precocious  contempt,  and  whirling  his  cap  on  his 
hand.  "  Never  could  make  me  believe  one  word  of  that  story. 
It's  jus'  nothin'  but  a  weak  invention  of  the  enemy." 

The  phrase,  which  Tugmutton  had  picked  up  from  somebody, 
was  so  odd  in  his  childish  mouth,  and  so  oddly  expressed,  that 
Emily  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter,  and  threw  herself  into  a 
chair,  while  both  Mrs.  Eastman  and  Muriel  smiled.  Tugmut 
ton  grinned  delightedly  at  the  effect  of  his  speech,  and  then 
looked  awfully  demure  and  dignified. 

"  Anyhow,"  he  continued,  "  all  them  foolish  colored  folks 
are  believin'  that  story.  Them  folks  has  jus'  got  no  gumption, 
anyway.  Talkin'  about  that  story  in  the  street,  now — mil 
lions  of  them." 

"  Are  the  colored  people  out  in  the  street,  Charles  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Eastman. 

" In  the  street?  Laws,  Missus  Eas'man,  Southac  street's 
full  of  'em,"  returned  Tugmutton. 

"  There  may  be  something  in  jt,  after  all,  mother,"  said 
Muriel.  "I'll  go." 

"  Bless  me,  Muriel,  are  you  not  afraid  ?"  exclaimed  Emily. 

"  Afraid  !  Not  at  all.  What  possible  danger  is  there  ? 
Besides,  I  want  to  see  what's  going  on.  Come,  let's  go." 

Emily  rose  and  followed  Muriel,  who  left  the  room  for  her 
bonnet. 

"  Come,  Charles,"  said  Mrs.  Eastman,  moving  to  the  door; 
"  come  down-stairs,  and  I'll  give  you  something  to  eat.  Little 
men  like  you  are  always  ready  for  pie." 

Tugmutton,  with  the  prospect  of  pie  in  his  delighted  vision, 
flashed  into  a  huge  grin,  which  displayed  all  his  ivories,  and 
lit  his  blobber-grey  face  ;  and  checking  the  impulse  which 
prompted  him  to  execute  a  shuffling  breakdown  on  the  spot,  he 
dodged  out  at  the  door  after  Mrs.  Eastman. 


1 38  HARRINGTON. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

AN    EPISODE    OF   THE   REIGN    OF   TERROR. 

IN  a  few  minutes  the  two  young  ladies,  cloaked  and 
bonneted,  came  out  into  the  sunlit  street,  where  stood  the  car 
riage,  which  Patrick,  the  inside  man,  had  brought  up  from 
Niles's  stables.  Emily,  .characteristically  indifferent  to  the 
driver,  swept  in  and  took  her  seat.  Muriel,  on  the  contrary, 
who  was  V>n  friendly  terms  with  everybody,  courteously  bent 
her  head  to  him  as  she  passed.  The  driver  took  off  his  hat 
to  her,  and  stood  waiting  for  orders. 

"  Wait  a  minute,  please,"  said  Muriel. 

Presently,  Patrick,  a  grey-haired,  decorous  old  Irishman, 
came  out  with  a  basket,  covered  with  a  white  cloth,  which  he 
deposited  on  the  seat  of  the  carriage. 

"  Bless  me,  what's  tha*  I"  exclaimed  Emily,  laughing. 

"Pardiggle  tracts  for  the  poor,"  said  Muriel,  jestingly. 
"Patrick,  tell  Charles  to  hurry." 

Patrick  went  in  and  soon  returned  with  Tugmutton,  who 
jumped  down  the  steps,  and  scrambled  into  the  carriage. 
Tugmutton's  fat  face  was  all  agriii  and  shining  like  satin-wood. 
The  happy  youth  had  devoured  a  whole  pie,  and  was  in  a  state 
of  supreme  exhilaration.  His  repletion,  however,  did  not  pre 
vent  him  from  ogling  the  basket  by  his  side,  and  he  would 
have  liked  nothing  better  than  to  make  his  dessert  on  its  con 
tents. 

Muriel  gave  the  driver  his  directions,  and  the  vehicle  started 
off  down  Temple  and  into  Cambridge  street  to  the  corner  of 
Garden.  They  were  turning  up  Garden  street,  when  Tugmut 
ton  opened  his  great  eyes,  and  said. 

"  Well  now,  I  declare  !     If  there  ain't  Mr.  Harrington  I" 


HARRINGTON.  139 

Muriel  leaned  forward,  and  caught  sight  of  the  noble 
soldier-figure  of  Harrington  striding  up  the  street  before 
them. 

"  Hullo  !  Mr.  Harrington !  I  say !"  screeched  Tugmutton. 

Harrington  turned,  with  the  sun  on  the  martial  lines  of 
his  face  and  beard.  He  caught  sight  of  the  inmates  of  the 
carriage  instantly,  and  signaling  to  the  driver  to  stop,  he  came 
down  the  street,  to  the  side  of  the  carriage. 

"  What  is  it,  John  ?"  asked  Muriel. 

"  Nothing,"  he  replied,  smiling,  and  bending  his  head  to 
Emily.  "  It's  a  false  alarm,  I  find.  But  these  poor  people 
are  very  much  excited,  and  I  was  going  up  to  quiet  them." 

"  Come  in.     We're  going  to  Roux's,"  said  Muriel. 

Harrington  entered,  sat  in  Tugmutton's  place,  taking  him 
on  his  knee,  and  the  carriage  went  on  till  it  reached  the  corner 
of  Southac  street,  where  it  stopped. 

"  There's  considerable  of  a  crowd  here,"  cried  the  driver. 

They  all  looked  out  at  the  carriage  window  upon  the  squalid 
neighborhood.  Only  a  Dickens  or  a  Victor  Hugo  could  fitly 
describe  the  strange  and  picturesque  scene  which  met  their 
eyes.  Huddled  together  in  excited  groups,  or  moving  hither 
and  thither  in  straggling  masses,  hundreds  of  colored  men  and 
women,  clad  in  every  variety  of  costume,  and  lawless  and  unhu- 
man  in  aspect,  swarmed  over  the  street  with  a  loud,  dense  inartic 
ulate  confusion  of  voices,  the  bright  sunlight  bringing  out  their 
motley  forms  and  bronze  faces  in  grotesque  and  vivid  salience. 
So  uncouth  and  various  were  the  costumes — coats  and  hats  of 
extinct  styles  and  patterns,  frowsy  and  shabby  raiment  of  every 
fashion  within  the  last  half  century,  intermingling  with  the 
many-colored  gowns  and  head-dresses  of  the  girls  and  women 
— that  but  for  the  heavy-lipped,  sombre  faces,  with  their  flash 
ing  teeth  and  wild-rolling  eyes,  and  the  menacing  gestures  and 
threatening  hum  of  the  multitude,  it  might  have  seemed  some 
masquerading  mob,  arrayed  in  the  garments  of  the  old  clothes 
shops.  Protruding  from  every  window  in  the  dingy  and  dilapi 
dated  houses  on  either  side  of  the  street,  big  clusters  of  heads, 
mostly  those  of  women  and  children,  some  with  great  shocks 
of  wool,  some  bullet-shaped  and  closely  shorn,  some  wearing 


140  .          HARRINGTON. 

white  mob  caps  and  red  and  yellow  bandanna  kerchiefs,  were 
bobbing  restlessly  over  the  excited  multitude  below.  Up  and 
down  cellar-ways,  and  in  and  out  of  numerous  alleys  and 
yawning  doors,  uneasy  shoals  were  constantly  pouring,  pass 
ing  from  or  mingling  with  the  mongrel  and  fantastic  concourse 
in  the  street,  which  continually  moved  in  the  sunlight  with  a 
hoarse,  turbulent,  swarming  undertone,  like  the  far-off  roar  of 
insurrection. 

A  deep  flush  came  to  the  broad-nostrilled  face  of  Harring 
ton  as  he  gazed. 

"  What  a  sight  for  Boston  in  the  nineteenth  century  !"  he 
exclaimed.  "  Vaunting  her  civilization  while  terror  invades 
the  refuge  of  her  poor!" 

Emily,  deathly  pale,  leaned  back  in  the  carriage,  and 
shuddered. 

At  that  moment,  a  portion  of  the  crowd,  seeing  the  car 
riage,  set  up  a  clamor  of  cries,  and  surged  down  toward  it. 
Two  or  three  stones  were  thrown,  which  rattled  on  the  pave 
ment  around  the  vehicle,  and  the  horses  began  to  plunge  and 
rear.  Instantly  Muriel  flung  open  the  carriage-door,  and 
springing  into  the  street,  calm  and  fearless,  held  up  her  hand. 
Harrington  quickly  leaped  out  after  her. 

"  Halloa,  there  I"  he  shouted,  with  a  commanding  voice, 
which,  like  Muriel's  gesture,  fell  like  magic  upon  the  thought 
less  assailants.  He  was  well  known  in  the  quarter,  and  the 
negroes  recognizing  a  friend,  set  up  a  cheer  of  welcome.  Tug- 
mutton  meanwhile  had  pounced  from  the  carriage  upon  the 
boys  that  threw  the  stones,  and  assaulted  them  with  a  showei 
of  cuffs  and  kicks.  He  came  back,  presently,  full  of  vic 
tory,  his  blobber  cheeks  puffed  out  with  rage  and  self-import 
ance. 

"  Them  miser'ble  young  niggers  haven't  got  no  more  gump 
tion  than  just  nothin'  at  all,"  he  spluttered.  "  Guess  they'll 
mind  now,  though.  Gosh  !  I  lit  on  'em  like  a  duck  on  a  June 
bug.  When  I  fall  afoul  of  'em  guess  they  think  it's  General 
Washington  and  the  spirit  of  seventy-six.  Miser'ble  young 
bloats  1" 

Harrington  could  not  help  smiling  as  he  looked  down  on 


HARRINGTON. 

the  fat  imp,  who  was  delivering  himself  in  these  figurative 
terms,  with  an  indescribable  swell  and  swagger.  The  horses 
were  still  pawing  and  trembling,  and  Muriel  went  to  their 
heads,  and  stood  with  one  gloved  hand  grasping  the  reins,  and 
the  other  patting  and  stroking  the  cheeks  and  noses  of  the 
alarmed  animals.  The  driver,  who  sat  on  his  box,  white  as 
a  sheet,  firmly  holding  the  reins,  looked  down  admiringly  on 
the  fearkss  and  graceful  sunlit  figure,  and  the  negroes  stand 
ing  around,  stared  with  delighted  awe. 

Harrington,  meanwhile,  was  at  the  carriage  door,  assuring 
Emily,  who  protested  that  she  was  not  afraid,  as  indeed  she 
was  not,  for  she  was  naturally  courageous.  Presently  Muriel 
came  around  to  the  carriage  door,  her  face  bright  and 
calm. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "  I  will  go  on  to  Roux's.  The  carriage 
had  better  stand  here.  Emily,  will  you  come  with  us  ?" 

"But  you're  not  going  through  that  crowd,  Muriel  I"  ex 
claimed  Emily. 

"  Why  certainly,"  replied  Muriel,  laughing.  "  I  wouldn't 
miss  the  chance  for  the  world.  Going  through  that  crowd 
is  part  of  my  culture.  Besides,  dear,  the  crowd  won't  eat 
us." 

"I  think  I  will  stay  here,"  returned  Emily.  "I  am  not 
afraid,  but  this  scene  is  terribly  painful  to  me,  and  I  could 
hardly  bear  to  go  among  the  poor  people.  Do  you  think  this 
will  drive  some  of  them  off"  to  Canada,  Muriel  ?" 

"I  fear  so,"  replied  Muriel,  with ' a  wistful  glance  at  the 
concourse. 

Emily  colored,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  Let  me  give  something  for  them,  Muriel,"  she  faltered, 
taking  out  her  porte-monnaie.  "  You  may  know  some  of  them 
who  want  means,  and  if  you  do,  give  them  this." 

She  held  out  a  little  roll  of  bills— fifty  dollars.  It  was 
money  she  had  intended  for  shopping,  and  it  was  all  she  had 
with  her. 

"  But,  dear  Emily,"  said  Muriel,  looking  at  her  with  humid 
eyes,  "  I  do  not  know  that  I  shall  meet  with  any  one  who 
will  need  it." 


14:2  HARRINGTON. 

"  No  matter,"  replied  Emily;  "  take  it  with  you  in  case  you 
should.  I  wish  I  could  help  them  all." 

Muriel  took  the  bills  with  a  tender  smile,  and  Harrington 
caught  the  profuse  hand,  and  looked  fervently  in  the  face  of 
the  giver.  At  that  look  Emily  cowered,  for  she  thought  it 
the  look  of  love  she  had  wickedly  evoked,  and  her  soul  quailed 
in  grief  and  shame.  Muriel,  too,  misread  the  look,  and  her 
spirit  rose  in  generous  feeling  at  the  token  of  a  lover's  happi 
ness  in  his  beloved  one. 

"  Ah,  thou  noble  one  1"  she  said,  with  playful  sweetness. 
"  Thou  rose  of  the  rose-garden  1  Well,  it  shall  be  as  you  say. 
Come,  Charles  ;  you  can  carry  the  basket.  John,  you  will 
stay  here  to  keep  Emily  company." 

Before  Emily  could  reply,  Muriel  moved  away,  followed  by 
the  triumphant  Tugmutton  with  the  basket  on  his  arm.  Pre 
sently  she  was  passing  through  the  parting  concourse,  bending 
her  head  in  acknowledgment  of  the  bows,  and  curtseys,  and 
doffing  of  hats  which  saluted  her.  The  negro  in  his  lowest 
estate  is  a  gentleman  in  his  courtesy,  superior  in  this  to 
many  a  white  of  high  and  low  degree.  The  weight  of  social 
wrong  had  crushed  out  or  bruised  down  many  an  excellence  in 
these  humble  people,  but  politeness  was  one  which  society 
could  not  destroy  in  them.  As  Muriel  went  on  through  the 
swarming  hum,  the  clatter  of  voices  would  cease,  the  men  and 
women  would  step  aside  from  the  path,  the  hats  would  be 
taken  from  the  heads  with  a  courteous  recognition  of  her  pre 
sence,  which  a  snob  might  not  have  the  wits  to  honor,  but 
which  Philip  Sidney's  pulse  would  surely  have  quickened  to 
behold.  Low  Irish,  in  their  place,  wjould  have  stood  stolidly  and 
gazed.  Low  English  would  have  shambled  aside  with  clownish 
loutishness.  Low  Americans  would  have  stared  and  leered, 
and  perhaps  spat  tobacco-juice  on  her  skirts  as  she  passed  them. 
The  low  negroes  were  civil  as  Frenchmen. 

In  the  heart  of  the  grotesque  and  motley  throng,  Muriel 
came  upon  a  black  man  whom  she  knew- — an  erect  and  stal 
wart  figure,  straight  as  an  Indian,  with  a  fine,  masculine  face, 
and  the  full  swart  negrine  features.  He  was  standing  in  a 
doorway  in  his  shirtsleeves.  Instantly  bowing  low,  and  taking 


HAEKLNGTON.  143 

off  his  felt  hat  when  he  saw  her,  he  came  forward  iu  courteous 
posture  as  she  stopped.  Muriel  smiled  graciously,  and  gave 
him  her  hand  as  freely  and  firmly  as  she  would  have  given  it 
to  her  most  aristocratic  friend.  He  took  it  reverentially, 
yet  without  bashfulness,  while  all  the  black  people  around 
stared. 

"  Have  you  heard  the  news,  Mr.  Brown  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  madam,"  returned  the  negro,  bowing  low.  "  It's 
sad  news,  too,  madam.  As  yet  we  don't  know  which  of  us 
they're  after,  but  I  was  just  going  down  town  to  see  the  Vigi 
lance  Committee,  and  find  out  about  it." 

"  I  am  happy  to  tell  you  that  it's  a  false  alarm,"  replied 
Muriel,  smiling.  "  Mr.  Harrington  says  so,  so  you  can  be  at 
ease.  Won't  you  please  to  spread  the  news  among  your 
people  here,  so  that  they  may  be  relieved." 

The  news  was  spread  already,  for  she  had  no  sooner  said  it, 
than  it  was  taken  up  and  passed  from  lip  to  lip  with  joyful 
confusion.  Presently  it  reached  the  depths  of  the  crowd,  and 
instantly  there  was  a  straggling  shout,  followed  by  a  surge  of 
the  whole  concourse  toward  the  direction  from  whence  the 
information  had  proceeded. 

"  Stand  back,"  roared  the  negro  in  a  tremendous  voice. 
"  There's  a  lady  here.  Don't  crowd  the  lady." 

Instantly  the  cry,  "  don't  crowd  the  lady,"  was  taken  up, 
and  the  dense  masses  surged  back,  every  man  turning  upon  his 
neighbor,  and  shouldering  him  away  in  officious  zeal,  till  there 
was  a  great  bare  space  left  around  Muriel  and  her  companion, 
with  a  circular  crowd  around  its  border,  and  further  behind  in 
the  throng,  negroes  jumping  up  and  down,  to  catch  a  sight  of 
"the  lady." 

Muriel  laughed,  and  at  once  the  negroes  in  front  laughed, 
and  the  laugh  spread  till  it  became  a  universal,  jovial  guffaw, 
while  some  of  the  lighter  spirits  threw  themselves  into  gro 
tesque  contortions,  and  capered  and  stamped  up  and  down  in 
extravagant  glee.  Presently  a  conviction  came  to  the  crowd 
that  they  were  at  an  unnecessary  distance,  and  at  once  there 
was  a  forward  movement  of  the  whole  mass  to  within  a  yard 
of  Muriel,  every  one  nervously  ready  to  turn  again  upon  his 


144  HARRINGTON. 

neighbor,  and  crowd  him  off,  at  the  slightest  hint  that  they 
were  too  near,  and  some  of  them  looking  anxiously  at  Tugrnut- 
ton,  who,  taking  upon  himself  very  important  airs  by  virtue  of 
his  attendance  upon  Miss  Eastman,  stood  holding  the  basket, 
with  his  blobber  cheeks  and  big  lips  puffed  out  in  ludicrous 
dignity,  as  wondering  at  their  impudence. 

"  I  trust,  Mr.  Brown,"  continued  Muriel,  "that  none  of 
the  poor  people  will  be  frightened  by  this,  into  going  to 
Canada." 

The  negro  looked  sombrely  into  vacancy  for  a  moment 
before  answering.  He  was  one  of  the  influential  men  of  the 
quarter,  and  knew  pretty  much  all  that  went  on  there. 
Brave,  faithful,  generous  himself,  he  added  to  his  good 
qualities  that  of  keen  sympathy  for  his  people. 

"  I'm  afeared,  madam,"  he  said,  "  that  this  affair  will  scare 
off  some  of  them.  I  advise  every  one  to  stay  that  can,  and 
fight  it  out.  I  don't  go  myself,  and  I  wouldn't  give  two  cents 
for  the  chance  of  taking  me,  so  long  as  I  have  this." 

He  opened  his  waistcoat  as  he-  spoke,  showing  a  huge 
sheathed  bowie-knife  in  a  side-pocket  of  the  garment. 

"  I  carry  this,  madam,  night  and  day,"  he  continued. 
"  Whenever  they  want  me,  they'll  find  me  ready.  But  there's 
a  lot  of  folks  here  that  ain't  up  to  my  way,  and  the  poor 
cre'turs  go.  There's  two  boardin'  with  me  now  that  have 
about  made  up  their  minds  to  git  away  right  off,  and  as 
they're  bent  on  it,  I  shall  have  to  help  them  all  I  can,  though 
cash  is  rather  low  with  me  just  now.  Then  I've  been  told 
that  old  Pete  Washington  is  goin',  too,  with  his  folks. 
Pete's  proper  scared,  and  thinks  he's  sent  for  every  time  he 
hears  kidnappers  are  in  town.  I  haven't  heerd  tell  of  no 
more." 

He  said  it  with  a  kind  of  mechanical  sadness,  fumbling 
slowly  as  he  spoke  with  the  handle  of  the  knife  under  his 
waistcoat,  his  eyes  roving  absently,  meanwhile,  over  the  gaping 
faces  of  the  motley  crowd. 

"Mr.  Brown,"  said  Muriel,  "here  are  fifty  dollars,  which  I 
want  you  to  divide  at  your  discretion  among  those  that  need 
means  tc  get  away.  It  is  from  a  lady  who  is  sitting  down 


HAEEINGTON.  145 

there  in  my  carriage.  She  wanted  it  given  for  this  purpose. 
If  you  need  any  more,  come  to  my  house  at  any  time.  And 
if  I  can  do  anything,  please  to  let  me  know,  for  I  want  to 
help  if  I  can." 

lie  took  the  money  quietly,  put  his  large  black  hand  over 
his  mouth,  and  bowed  low.  Then  throwing  back  his  head  and 
shoulders,  and  extending  his  brawny  arm  with  the  bills  in  the 
hand,  he  suddenly  fronted  the  crowd. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  said,  with  a  grandiose  manner, 
pouring  his  tremendous  bass  into  the  concourse,  "a  lady  in  the 
carriage  gives  fifty  dollars  to  help  the  brethren  that  are  leav 
ing  us  for  Canada.  The  lady  here  has  often  helped  us,  and 
will  help  again.  In  my  humble  opinion,  they're  both  of  'em 
God's  ladies,  and  " 

The  great  voice  broke.  Muriel,  astonished  by  this  unex 
pected  outburst,  was  yet  so  overcome  by  the  electric  passion 
of  the  negro's  speech  and  manner,  that  she  lost  her  self-posses 
sion,  and  knew  not  how  to  interpose. 

"  Three  cheers,"  screeched  Tugmutton,  at  this  juncture, 
thinking  that  some  cheering  would  be  highly  appropriate. 

Three  ?  They  cheered  till  they  reeled  !  Roar  on  roar 
went  up  in  solid  volume,  till  the  sky  seemed  to  swoon  above 
them.  Muriel,  disconcerted  for  once  in  her  life,  turned  to 
Brown,  who  stood  grimly  smiling,  and  begged  him  to  quiet 
them  and  get  them  to  disperse.  He  put  out  his  hand,  and  at 
once  the  tumult  immediately  around  them  dropped,  though 
broken  shouting  still  went  on  in  the  rear.  Turning  to  the 
fat  squab  who  had  given  the  word  for  this  ovation,  and 
played  fugleman  with  cap  and  voice  to  it  all,  Muriel  silently 
beckoned  him  to  follow,  and  hurriedly  bowing  and  smiling 
to  the  calm  negro,  went  on. 


146  HARRINGTON. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

ROUX. 

SHE  had  not  gone  half  a  dozen  paces,  before  some  one  came 
striding  to  her  side.  It  was  Harrington,  and  she  instantly 
put  her  arm  in  his,  with  a  gesture  so  sudden  and  joyous,  that 
the  young  man  thrilled. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come,"  she  said. 

Emily  had  insisted  on  his  leaving  her,  and  attending  upon 
Muriel,  Harrington  remarked. 

"But  you  are  pale,"  he  pursued,  looking  into  her  face, 
which  colored  and  smiled  under  his  kind  and  searching  eyes. 

"  And  now  you  are  not  pale,"  he  added,  laughingly. 

Muriel  laughed  silverly,  and  told  the  reason  of  her  momen 
tary  agitation,  which  amused  Harrington  vastly. 

Presently  they  reached  the  dingy  alley  in  which  Roux  lived. 
It  was  a  corner  house,  inhabited  by  several  families.  A 
flight  of  wooden  steps  led  up  to  the  second  story,  in  which 
Roux  had  two  rooms. 

Roux  was  a  white-washer,  window-cleaner,  boot-black  and 
what  not  by  occupation.  He  had  come  up  from  his  little  shop 
in  Water  street,  down  in  the  heart  of  the  city,  at  the  rumor 
which  Tugmutton  had  brought  him,  that  kidnappers  were  in 
town  ;  for  he  was  a  fugitive,  and  since  the  passage  of  the 
Fugitive  Slave  Law  he  had  never  felt  safe  in  Boston,  where 
he  had  previously  passed  nearly  nine  secure  years. 

He  was  sitting  on  an  old  chair,  in  an  attitude  of  deep  dejec 
tion,  crooning  to  his  babe,  which  he  held  in  his  arms,  with  his 
other  two  children,  a  boy  and  girl,  sitting  on  either  knee. 
The  baby  was  a  pretty  little  boy,  with  negrine  features,  clear 
saffron  skin,  and  glittering  dark  eyes.  Josey,  who  sat  on  his 
right  knee,  was  a  slender,  bright-eyed,  brown-skinned  little  girl, 


HARRINGTON.  147 

six  years  old.  Tom,  sitting  on  the  other  knee,  was  like  his 
sister,  and  four  years  of  age.  They  were  both  pretty  children, 
neatly  dressed  in  clothes  which  Muriel  and  her  mother  had 
provided  for  them.  Roux  himself  was  a  good-looking  negro, 
athletic  in  build,  dark-complexioned,  with  short,  woolly  hair, 
and  heavy  eyebrows.  He  was  attired  in  an  old  sack,  coat  and 
blue  overalls,  specked  with  white-wash,  for  he  had  come  up  to 
the  house  in  his  working  clothes.  The  room  in  which  he  sat 
had  received  a  touch  of  his  art,  as  the  yellow-washed  walls  and 
white-washed  ceiling  testified.  It  was  a  poor,  low-browed 
apartment,  but  neat  and  clean,  though  pervaded  by  that 
frowsy  odor  which  one  often  scents  in  ^Ke  dwellings  of  the 
poor.  The  floor  was  bare.  Three  or  four  cheap  colored  prints 
hung  in  veneered  frames  on  the  walls.  There  was  a  trundle 
bed  in  one  corner  for  the  children;  a  small  cooking-stove  near 
the  fireboard,  with  an  immense  deal  of  gawky  funnel  zigzag 
ging  up  to  a  hole  in  the  wall  near  the  ceiling;  a  small  clock 
ticking  faintly  on  the  mantelpiece,  with  some  gaudy  ornaments 
near  it;  a  table,  and  half  a  dozen  old-fashioned,  second-hand 
chairs.  Behind  the  family  group  was  an  open  door,  giving  a 
view  of  another  room,  with  a  rag-carpet  on  the  floor,  a  bureau, 
and  a  bed,  on  which  lay,  in  her  clothes,  a  mulatto  woman, 
Roux's  wife. 

Roux  ceased  his  crooning  as  the  broad-limbed,  blobber- 
cheeked  squab  of  a  Tugmutton  threw  open  the  door,  grinning 
from  ear  to  ear,  and  lumbered  in  with  the  basket,  which  he 
deposited  in  the  middle  of  the  floor. 

"  You  ain't  goin'  to  be  took  back,  father,  this  time,"  bawled 
the  cheerful  youth.  "It's  a  false  alarm.  Gosh!  I  knew  it 
wasn't  nothin'  but  a  false  alarm.  There  ain't  no  kidnappers  in 
Boston,  an'  never  will  be  neither." 

• "  Tugmutton,  what's  that  ?"  demanded  Roux,  eyeing  the 
basket. 

The  imp  drew  up  his  chunky  figure  with  severe  dignity,  and 
rolled  his  saucer  eyes  and  jerked  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder. 
At  the  same  moment  Muriel's  courtly  face  and  figure  appeared 
at  the  door,  with  Harrington's  countenance  smiling  over  her 
shoulder.  The  poor  room  was  suddenly  adorned  by  these  fair, 


14:8  HARRINGTON. 

strong  presences,  and  its  frowsy  air  was  sweetened  and  softened 
with  delicate  fragrance.  Roux's  children  scrambled  down  at 
once  to  run  over  to  their  smiling  angel,  who  entered  with  affa 
ble  and  cordial  grace,  and  stooped  to  fondle  and  kiss  the  little 
ones,  while  Roux  himself  rose,  with  the  baby  on  his  left  arm, 
bowing  confusedly,  and  smiling  with  considerable  pompousness 
of  manner,  as  of  one  who  thought  himself  highly  honored. 

"  How  are  you  to-day,  Mr.  Roux,"  said  Harrington,  com 
ing  over  to  the  delighted  negro,  and  shaking  hands  with  him. 
"  And  how  is  your  wife  ?  And  this  little  one,"  he  added, 
putting  his  large  hand  on  the  head  of  the  staring  baby. 

"All  right,  Mr.  Harrington,"  returned  Roux.  "Though 
the  madam's  not  as  well  as  she  might  be,  sir,"  he  continued,  in 
a  grandiloquent  tone.  "  She  got  a  sort  of  a  shock,  Mr.  Har 
rington,  when  this  news  come,  and  went  right  off  into  spasms. 
Clarindy's  awful  scared  lest  some  of  these  here  days  old  master 
should  send  for  me,  and  I'm  right  skittish  myself,  sir,  in  view 
of  that  catastrophe." 

Another  person  might  have  smiled  at  Roux's  half-anxious, 
half-pompous  tone,  but  Harrington  looked  at  him  with  a  kind 
and  concerned  face,  knowing  how  much  real  apprehension  and 
distress  his  words  covered. 

"I  am  extremely  sorry  that  your  wife  should  have  been 
alarmed,"  said  the  young  man.  "  But  it's  true,  as  Charles 
said,  that  this  is  a  false  report." 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Roux,"  added  Muriel,  coming  forward  from  the 
children,  and  giving  him  her  hand,  "  it's  nothing  but  an  idle 
rumor,  so  keep  a  good  heart." 

"  Thank  ye,  Miss  Eas'man,  and  I  am  extrornerly  rejoiced  at 
the  reception  of  this  unlocked  for  intelligence,"  returned  Roux, 
bowing  reverentially,  while  his  manner  grew  more  pompous, 
and  his  language  more  grandiloquent.  "And  the  madam,"  he 
continued,  "  will  hear  the  glad  tidings  with  great  joy,  likewise, 
Miss  Eas'man.  I  heerd  the  shoutin'  and  hoorawin'  in  the 
street,  though  I  wasn't  able  to  spekilate  with  any  certainty  as 
to  its  cause,  an'  with  the  chil'ren  here,  an'  Clariridy  a-lyin'  on 
the  bed,  feelin'  ruther  weak,  I  found  it  on  the  whole,  inexpe 
dient  to  go  out  and  see  what  was  a  goin'  on." 


HABRING-TON.  149 

He  addressed  the  last  sentence  of  this  speech  to  Harrington. 
Muriel  had  gone  into  the  other  room,  and  was  leaning  over 
Mrs.  Roux,  speaking  in  a  low,  soothing  voice,  with  her  hands 
on  the  sick  woman's  head.  The  ^children  were  prattling  with 
each  other,  and  Tugmutton  was  standing  apart,  with  his  short 
arms  akimbo,  the  hands  spread  on  his  hips,  and  an  expression 
of  ineffable  scorn  on  his  fat,  grey  face,  which  was  turned  toward 
Roux. 

"Now,  father,"  said  the  squab,  taking  advantage  of  the 
pause,  "  ain't  you  ashamed  ?  My  gosh  1  I'm  goin'  to  blush 
at  ye,  father." 

"  What's  the  matter,  Tugmutton,"  asked  Roux,  with  comical 
deprecation. 

"What's  the  matter?  That's  a  pretty  question  I"  was  the 
reproachful  reply.  "  There  you  stand,  and  never  ask  Mr. 
Harrington  to  take  a  chair.  That's  the  matter.  Do  you  call 
that  doin'  the  honors  of  the  establishment  ?" 

Roux  looked  abashed,  while  Tugmutton,  with  his  face 
puffed  out,  and  his  eye  sternly  fixed  upon  the  offending  party, 
brought  forward  a  chair,  dumped  it  down  under  Harrington's 
coat-tails,  and  retreating  a  couple  of  paces,  put  his  arms 
akimbo  again,  still  sternly  regarding  Roux. 

The  whole  proceeding  was  so  ineffably  droll,  that  Harring 
ton,  sinking  into  the  chair,  with  a  hand  on  each  knee,  laughed 
heartily,  though  quietly,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  fat  pigmy. 
Roux,  who  was  very  fond  of  Tugmutton,  and  submitted 
meekly  to  all  his  odd  humors,  regarding  him,  indeed,  with  an 
absurd  mixture  of  puzzled  curiosity  and  reverential  awe,  such 
as  the  good-natured  Welsh  giant  might  have  bestowed  upon 
Jack  the  Giant-killer,  stood  now,  with  the  baby  on  his  arm,  un 
easily  eyeing  his  chunky  mentor,  and  smiling  confusedly.  No 
thing  could  be  more  amusing  than  the  relation  Tugmutton  oc 
cupied  toward  him,  and  the  rest  of  the  family.  They  were  all 
under  the  domination  of  this  small,  fat  chunk.  Tugmutton's 
grand  assumption  of  importance,  and  his  authoritative  airs,  con 
joined  with  his  genuine  affection  for  them  all,  which  took  the 
form  of  perpetual  wardenship,  had  prevailed  over  the  age  and 
experience  of  both  Roux  and  his  wife.  He  was  so  old-fashioned, 


150  HARRINGTON. 

so  queer,  so  mysterious  and  inconceivable  a  creature  to  them, 
that  they  looked  upon  him  almost  as  a  superior  being,  and 
petted  and  humored  him  in  all  possible  ways. 

"  Just  look  at  you,  now,"  continued  the  irate  fat  boy.  "  Do 
you  call  that  the  way  to  hold*  a  baby  ?  With  his  head  hangin' 
down,  and  every  drop  of  blood  in  his  body  runrrin'  into  it ! 
My  gosh  !  that  child'll  never  have  one  speck  of  hair,  father, 
an'  water  on  the  brain,  beside." 

Without  feeling  any  apprehension  of  the  capillary  and  hy- 
drocephalous  catastrophe  thus  ominously  predicted  as  the  inevi 
table  consequence  of  his  way  of  holding  the  baby,  Roux 
glanced  at  the  little  one,  whose  head  was  drooping  back  over 
his  arm,  and  whose  fat,  yellow  fists  were  contentedly  inserted 
in  its  mouth,  and  then  gently  shifted  the  position  of  the  child, 
so  as  to  rest  its  head  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Just  you  give  me  that  baby,  father,"  blurted  out  the  fat 
boy,  starting  forward,  and  receiving  in  his  short  arms  the  in 
fant  which.  Roux  readily  abandoned  to  his  charge.  "  There's 
nobody  knows  how  to  take  care  of  this  poor  child  but  me," 
he  indignantly  continued,  bearing  off  his  burden,  and  sitting 
down  with  it  in  a  short  chair  near  the  wall.  "  Lord  a  mercy  ! 
If  it  wasn't  for  me,  I  don't  know  what'd  become  of  this  family  ! 
Chick-a-dee-dee — chick-a-dee-dee — honey — honey— pretty  Brud- 
der  Baby,"  he  chirruped,  showing  all  his  ivories  in  a  jovial  grin 
to  the  infant,  and  dancing  it  up  and  down  in  his  short  arms. 

"  Tugmutton's  great  on  takin'  care  of  the  chil'ren,"  remarked 
Roux  to  the  smiling  Harrington.  "  There  aint  no  better  boy 
than  Tug  nowhere,  Mr.  Harrington.  He  helps  Clarindy  a 
mighty  deal,  an'  he's  a  reel  comfort,  I  tell  you." 

"Why,  yes,  Mr.  Roux,  so  I  see,"  smilingly  returned  the 
young  man.  "  And  he  learns  the  lessons  I  give  him,  very 
well.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  Charles  came  to  be  a  great  man 
one  of  these  days.  He  says  he's  going  to  be  a  lawyer  like 
Robert  Morris." 

Robert  Morris  was  a  colored  man,  who  had  fought  his  way 
up  against  the  prejudice  of  the  many,  and  with  the  aid  of  a 
few,  to  an  honorable  position,  which  he  then  held,  at  the  Bos 
ton  Bar. 


HARRINGTON.  151 

"  Tell  you  what,  Mr.  Harrington,"  said  the  proud  Tug- 
mutton,  "  Danel  Webster  won't  be  nowhere  when  I  come  on 
the  scene  of  action.  I'll  make  him  stand  round.  Fugitive 
Slave  Law's  bound  to  go  then,  an'  all  the  kidnappers  '11  be 
hung  right  up." 

At  that  moment  steps  were  heard,  and  Emily  appeared  at 
the  door,  coloring  with  the  novelty  of  her  situation,  and  fol 
lowed  by  a  short,  thick-set  man,  in  a  straw  hat,  with  his  head 
bent  sideways. 

"  Why,  Emily  I"  exclaimed  Harrington,  starting  up.  "  And 
with  the  Captain  !  Miss  Ames,  Mr.  Roux.  Captain  Fisher 
you  know." 

The  superb  beauty  curtseyed  low,  with  a  sweeping  rustle  of 
silks,  and  Roux,  fluttering  at  heart  in  the  presence  of  the  aris 
tocratic  lady,  bent  himself  as  if  he  had  a  hinge  in  his  back. 
Harrington  handed  Emily  a  chair,  into  which  she  sank,  smiling 
and  nodding  to  the  enchanted  Tugmutton,  and  Muriel  came 
floating  out  from  the  inner  room  with  her  natural  urbane 
curtsey. 

"  Why,  Emily  !"  she  exclaimed,  shutting  the  door  behind 
her.  "  You  too.  Good  morning,  Captain  Fisher. 

"  It's  my  doin's,  Miss  Eastman,"  said  the  Captain,  in  a 
cheery  voice,  looking  at  Muriel  with  his  head  on  one  side,  and 
his  hat  on,  as  he  shook  hands  with  her.  "  Comin'  along,  I 
see  Miss  Ames  in  the  hack,  and  she  said  you  was  here  ;  so 
I  said,  why  not  go  too,  and  she  took  my  extinded  arm,  and 
up  we  come  together." 

He  held  Muriel's  hand  as  he  made  this  explanation,  and 
dropping  it  when  he  had  concluded,  stood  looking  intently 
at  her,  as  though  some  reply  was  expected.  He  was  a 
short  man,  with  a  round  face,  yellow  and  rosy,  like  a  winter 
pippin  ;  round,  dark  eyes,  which  never  winked  ;  a  short  nose, 
shaped  like  a  beak  ;  and  he  had  a  way  of  bending  his  head 
sideways,  and  looking  at  you  like  some  odd  bird.  There  was 
a  general  aspect  of  the  sea-faring  man  about  him,  and  he  had 
been  for  many  years  the  skipper  of  coasting  vessels,  in  which 
occupation  he  had  amassed  some  property.  He  now  lived  in 
the  same  house  with  Harrington,  for  whom  he  had  a  grea.t 


152  HARRINGTON. 

affection,  and  did  a  little  business  in  collecting  rents  for  a 
number  of  house-owners. 

"  I  just  came  up  to  let  the  folks  here  know,"  he  continued, 
"  that  there's  no  sneakin'  soul-drivers  come  to  Boston  this  time. 
I  was  told  there  was  some  of  a  crowd  here,  but  they're  all 
scattered  now,  and  I  met  Brown,  who  said  he'd  been  informed 
'twas  a  false  alarm.  No  danger,  I  hope.  The  Vigilance  Com 
mittee  keep  a  sharp  look-out  ahead,  and  we're  pretty  sure  to 
know  what's  goin'  on." 

In  those  dark  days,  when  Boston  had  gone  for  kidnapping, 
there  was  an  organization,  composed  of  the  leading  Abolition 
ists,  with  a  few  anti-slavery  people,  young  and  old,  who  made 
it  their  business  to  keep  a  watch  for  Southern  man-hunters,  to 
warn  fugitives  of  their  danger,  to  assist  them  in  their  flight 
with  money  and,  arms,  and  in  every  practicable  way  to  baffle 
the  kidnappers.  This  was  known  as  the  Vigilance  Committee, 
and  its  existence  and  efforts  were  among  the  few  bright  rays 
which  lit  the  dark  insanity  of  Boston  at  that  period.  Captain 
Fisher  was  a  member  of  it,  as  was  Harrington. 

"  I  got  here  before  you,  Eldad,"  said  Harrington,  smiling. 
"  Charles  came  to  the  house  with  the  rumor,  and  I  ran  down 
town  at  once,  and  found  there  was  no  truth  in  it." 

"  Trust  you  for  bein'  on  hand,  John,"  returned  the  Captain. 
"  You're  spry  as  a  topman.  When  Gabriel  toots  that  horn  of 
his,  you'll  be  the  first  one  up  out  o'  your  grave." 

The  Captain  wandered  over  to  Roux,  and  laying  his  hands 
on  the  negro's  shoulders  looked  at  him  steadily  with  his  head 
curved  sideways,  then  shook  htm  gently  to  and  fro,  then  got 
round  to  one  side  of  him  and  took  another  look,  and  then 
punched  him  with  his  forefinger  in  the  ribs. 

"  Roux,  how  are  you  ?"  he  chirruped  in  conclusion,  as  the 
negro  squirmed  away  from  the  fore-finger,  good-naturedly 
smiling. 

11  Firs'-rate,  Captain,"  answered  Roux.  "  Got  -scared 
though  at  that  story." 

The  Captain  stood  oblivious  of  his  answer,  looking  at  Tug- 
mutton  who,  swollen  with  pride,  was  exhibiting  the  baby  to 
Emily.  Roux  became  absorbed  in  admiring  awe  at  Tugmut- 


HARRINGTON.  153 

ton's  complacent  familiarity  with  Miss  Ames.  Tngmutton  was 
in  one  of  his  lordliest  moods,  proud  of  his  exclusive  aristocratic 
acquaintance,  and  conscious  that  Roux  and  the  two  children, 
who  stood  timidly  at  a  distance,  were  following  liim  with  reve 
rent  eyes.  • 

"  It's  a  very  pretty  baby,"  said  Emily  graciously,  turning  to 
Roux,  who  hastened  to  smile  and  bow.  "  But,  Mr.  Roux, 
these  three  children  do  not  resemble  Charles  at  all." 

"  Different  style  of  beauty,"  remarked  Tugmutton,  with  pre 
ternatural  gravity,  rolling  his  great  eyes  up  at  Emily. 

Emily  laughed  aloud  at  this  oracular  suggestion,  and  Har 
rington  and  Muriel  looked  at  each  other  and  smiled,  while 
the  Captain  fixedly  surveyed  the  squab  with  mute  admi 
ration. 

"  You  know,  dear,"  said  Muriel  to  Emily,  "  or  rather  you 
do  not  know,  that  Charles  is  only  an  adopted  child  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Roux." 

"  Oh  1"  returned  Emily,  suddenly  enlightened,  "  that  ac 
counts  for  the  different  style  of  beauty ." 

"  Yes,  madam,"  said  Roux  elaborately  bowing,  "  that 
accounts  for  it." 

Emily  smiled  at  the  simplicity  of  the  reply. 

"  And  how  did  it  happen  that  he  got  the  name  of  Tugmut 
ton,  Mr.  Roux  ?"  she  inquired. 

"  Well,  M'adam,"  replied  Roux,  quite  seriously,  "  it  was  a 
sort  of  accidental.  When  I  firs' got  to  Boston,  Tug's  father 
and  mother  treated  me  right  handsome.  I  was  ruther  bad 
off,  an'  they  took  me  in  till  I  got  some  thin'  to  do.  They  was 
very  fat  folks,  both  of  'em,  an'  Tug  was  an  uncommon  fat 
baby.  Somehow  his  father  and  mother  never  could  fix  on  a 
name  for  him,  so  he  growed  along  without  none.  Bimeby 
when  he  was  three  year  old,  his  father  died,  and  bimeby  when 
he  was  five,  his  mother  died  likewise.  I  was  married  to  Cla- 
rindy  when  that  catastrophe  happened,  so  feelin'  right  grateful 
to  Ezek'el  and  Sally  Pitts — that  was  Tug's  father  and  mother's 
name,  madam — I  took  Tug  in.  That  day  we  had  a  chunk  of 
baked  mutton,  wich  you  couldn't  bite,  madam,  it  was  so  tough, 
an'  after  dinner  we  missed  Tug  all  on  a  sudden.  We  got 

7* 


154  HARRINGTON. 

ruther  skeered  at  not  findin'  him,  an'  went  lookin'  round  the 
streets,  but  couldn't  git  no  news  of  him.  Long  toward  even- 
in'  we  heerd  a  stir  under  the  bed,  an'  lookin'  under,  there  he 
was  tuggin'  away  at  that  chunk  of  mutton,  and  there  he'd  hid 
himself  all  the  afternoon.  I'm  a  miser'ble  orphan,  says  he, 
the  minute  we  sot  eyes  on  him,  never  leavin7  off  tuggin'  at  the 
meat.  You're  a  young  Tugmutton,  an'  that's  what  you  are, 
says  Clarmdy.  .Then  we  larfed,  and  so  after  that  we  got  to 
callin'  him  Tugmutton,  an'  he  took  to  that  name  astonishin' 
That's  the  way  of  it,  madam." 

Muriel  and  Harrington,  who  had  heard  this  story  before, 
listened  to  it  now  smiling,  while  Emily  and  the  Captain,  vastly 
amused  during  its  repetition,  laughed  heartily  as  Boux  ended 
Tugmutton,  meanwhile,  sitting  in  the  low  chair  with  the  baby, 
grinned  sheepishly  at  the  revival  of  this  reminiscence  of  his 
miserable  orphanage. 

"  Are  you — that  is,  'did  you — escape  from  the  South, 
Mr.  Roux  ?"  inquired  Emily,  hesitatingly,  after  a  pause. 

"  Yes,  madam,  I  did,"  replied  Roux  with  another  elaborate 
bow.  "  It  wouldn't  be  well,  madam,  to  have  it  mentioned 
roundabout,  lest"- 

"  O  never  fear,  Mr.  Roux,"  she  rejoined  hurriedly.  "  I 
wouldn't  speak  of  it  for  the  world." 

"  In  fact,  madam,  I  believe  I  never  told  any  one  about  it/' 
continued  Roux,  falteringly,  "  with  the  especial  exception  of 
Mr.  Harrington  and  Miss  Eastman.  But  I  did  git  away 
from  the  southern  country,  way  down  in  Louzeana,  nine  years 
ago.  And  I've  got  a  brother  still  there,  madam,  leastways  if 
he's  alive,  wich  is  not  certain,  seein'  that  he  was  with  an 
uncommon  bad  master,  madam — in  fact,  one  of  the  worst  sort 
of  masters,  madam." 

"  Why  didn't  he  run  away  with  you,  Mr.  Roux  ?"  inquired 
Emily. 

"  He  was  ruther  scared  at  the  resks,  madam,"  replied  Roux, 
"  Says  I,  Ant'ny — his  name  was  Ant'ny,  madam — Ant'ny, 
says  I,  Master  Lafitte — Lafitte  was  old  Master's  name, 
madam — Master  Lafi tte'll  be  the  death  of  us,  Ant'ny.  We'd 
better  try  to  git  away  to  that  Boston  we've  heerd  tell  of. 


HARRINGTON.  155 

Ant'ny,    says    I,    I've   got   three   pounds   of   kian,    Ant'ny, 
I" 


"  Of  what  ?"  asked  Emily. 

"Of  kian,  madam — kian  pepper,  you  know." 

"  O,  yes.     Cayenne  pepper." 

"  Yes,  madam.  Wich  we  can  leave  on  the  track,  Ant'ny,. 
says  I,  and  that'll  throw  off  the  hounds,  I'm  a  thinkin'." 

"  The  hounds  !"  ejaculated  Emily,  knitting  her  brow  with 
horror,  and  looking  at  the  still  face  of  Muriel  and  then  at 
Harrington. 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  latter,  tranquilly.  "  In  this  free  and 
happy  country,  they  hunt  men  and  women  with  hounds. 
When  hounds  fail,  they  try  Fugitive  Slave  Law  Commis 
sioners." 

"  And  were  you  hunted,  Mr.  Roux  ?"  asked  Emily,  shud 
dering. 

"  Yes,  madam,"  replied  the  negro,  naively.  "  Ant'ny  was 
afeared  to  try  it,  and  then  I  thought  I  wouldn't  nuther,  for 
he  was  my  brother,  and  we'd  been  brought  up  together  on  old 
Madam  Roux's  estate  in  New  Orleans,  and  I  was  very  fond 
of  Ant'ny,  madam.  But  next  day,  you  see,  madam,  I  was 
feeliii'  rather  sick,  and  fell  short  in  the  pickin' — cotton-pickin', 
you  know.  So  when  night  come,  Master  Lafitte  he  flogged 
me  awful,  and  then  hung  me  up  in  the  gin-house — hung  me  up 
by  the  wrists,  an'  left  me  to  hang  overnight." 

Roux,  hearing  Captain  Fisher  muttering,  paused.  The 
Captain,  with  his  head  very  much  on  one  side,  was  swearing 
awfully  in  a  low  undertone  at  slavery  and  slaveholders  in 
general.  He  usually  contented  himself  with  such  mild  oaths 
as  "  by  the  great  horn  spoon" — as  people  who  leave  off  chew 
ing  tobacco  supply  its  place  with  spruce  gum.  But  as  the 
spruce-gum  chewers  sometimes  backslide  into  tobacco  again,  so 
the  Captain,  when  he  got  excited,  which  was  seldom,  would 
backslide  from  his  mild  profanity  into  such  swearing  as 
sailors,  who  swear  with  genius,  know  how  to  express  the  pas 
sion  of  their  souls  withal. 

"  Bimeby,  madam,"  resumed  Roux,  still  addressing  Emily, 
who  sat  looking  at  him  with  a  flush  of  fiery  indignation  on  her 


156  HARRINGTON. 

beautiful  countenance,  "  I  sloshed  about,  an'  the  rope  broke 
an'  let  me  down.  I  jus'  got  out  of  that  gin-house  mighty 
quick,  I  tell  you.  Then  I  went  down  a  piece  to  the  hollow 
stump,  where  I'd  hid  the  kian  an'  a  carvin'  knife,  which  I'd 
took  one  day  from  the  kitchen.  I  got  the  kian  an'  the  knife, 
an'  put  off  hot  foot  for  tne  north.  Jus'  about  sunrise,  I  heerd 
Dan  Belcher's  hounds  a-comin'  after  me — two  of  'em,  yellin' 
awful.  I  was  proper  skeered,  madam,  but  I  jus'  made  a  hole 
in  the  paper  of  kian,  an'  run  on,  holdin'  the  paper  low  down 
on  the  trail,  so's  to  let  the  kian  drop  out  along,  you  know. 
Then  when  the  kian  was  all  gone,  I  got  skeered,  an'  I  run  on  a 
piece,  an'  shinned  up  a  live-oak  'way  into  the  thick  of  the 
leaves,  an'  lay  still.  'Fore  long,  I  see  the  hounds  coniin',  an' 
Dan  Belcher  an'  old  Toler  an'  Master  Lafitte  ridin'  after  'em. 
I  got  so  skeered  I  like  to  dropped,  but  I  lay  hush,  an'  right 
soon  I  saw  the  dogs  run  up,  an'  poke  their  noses  into  the 
kian.  Ki-yi-yah,"  cachinnated  Roux,  overcome  with  the  remi 
niscence,  "  you  ought  to  have  seen  them  dogs,  madam.  They 
jus'  acted  as  if  they'd  got  religion  I  They  flopped  down  an' 
rolled  over,  yellin'  like  mad,  an'  rubbin'  their  noses  into  the 
kian,  an'  rollin'  agin,  an'  hollerin' — hi  !  Never  saw  nothin' 
out  of  camp-meetin'  act  like  them  cre'turs.  'Fore  long  up 
come  old  Master  an'  Dan  Belcher  an'  Toler,  an'  looked  at 
them  dogs.  I  couldn't  hear  a  word  they  was  sayin',  but  I 
spekilated  they  was  wonderin'  what  had  got  into  them  dogs. 
Then  Dan  Belcher,  he  got  down,  an'  dragged  off  the  hounds, 
an'  poked  his  nose  into  the  kian.  Hi  1  I  reckon  he  got  a 
smell,  for  he  jumped  up  rubbin'  his  nose,  an'  stampin'  round 
awful." 

Tugmutton,  with  the  baby  in  his  arms,  burst  into  a  screech 
of  eldritch  laughter,  kicking  up  his  feet  from  the  low  chair  in 
which  he  sat,  in  phrenetic  glee.  All  the  others  were  silent, 
with  faces  intent  on  Roux. 

"  Bimeby,"  resumed  the  negro,  "  Dan  Belcher  he  laid  a  hold 
of  the  dogs,  an'  dragged  them  on  a  piece  to  find  the  trail  with 
no  kian  on  it.  'Twasn't  no  use,  for  the  dogs  didn't  do  nothin' 
but  snuff  an'  yell  an'  roll  over.  So'n  about  a  half  an  hour, 
I  reckon,  they  all  went  back,  an'  I  lay  hush  in  the  tree  all 


HARRINGTON.  157 

day.  Along  towards  evenin'  I  got  down,  an*  run  on  agin. 
Bimeby  I  come  plump  on  a  man.  '  Where's  your  pass  V  says 
he.  '  Here  it  is/  says  I,  givin'  him  a  dig  with  the  carvin'- 
knife.  '  Ugh/  says  he  "  - 

Everybody  burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter  at  the  nonchalant, 
matter-of-fact  simplicity  with  which  Roux  said  this.  Roux 
himself  was  rather  amazed  at  the  interruption,  and  stood, 
faintly  smiling,  with  his  whitewash-stained  dark  hand  fumbling 
over  his  mouth,  and  his  eyes  uneasily  roving  over  the  laughing 
company. 

"  Well  done,  Roux,"  said  Harrington,  jumping  up,  and 
slapping  the  negro  on  the  shoulder.  "  '  Ense  petit  placidam 
sub  libertate  quietem,' "  he  continued,  quoting  the  legend  of 
the  Massachusetts  State-arms.  "  And  you  sought  the  tran 
quil  rest  of  freedom  with  a  carving-knife." 

"  Yes,  quietem  was  the  word,  and  you  did  quiet  him," 
chuckled  the  Captain,  punning  upon  the  Latin.  "  Sic  semper 
tyrannis,  is  another  bit  of  that  lingo,  an'  I  guess  old  tyrannis 
was  rather  sick  when  he  got  a  touch  of  Roux's  carving-knife. 
By  the  great  horn-spoon,  that's  the  richest  thing  I've  heard 
lately  !" 

"  But  what  did  the  man  do  then,  Mr.  Roux  ?"  asked 
Emily. 

"  Ugh,  says  he,  madam,  and  then  he  doubled  himself  up, 
an'  I  run  on,"  replied  Roux,  simply.  "  Bimeby  I  come  to  the 
Red  River,  and  I  swum  over.  Then  I  run  on  agin,  till  I  come 
to  the  Mississip,  an'  hid  in  a  wood-pile.  Long  toward 
mornin'  a  flat  boat  came  up  the  river,  and  hitched.  Then  I 
heerd  the  Captin  say,  says  he,  argufying  with  another  man, 
and  gittin'  mad  with  him,  I'm  Ohio,  says  he,  and  my  men 
are  Ohio,  an'  we  don't  care  a  damn  for  slavery,  says  he. 
Tother  man  went  off,  an'  I  run  out,  an'  says,  Captin,  says  I, 
I've  run  for  my  freedom,  -an'  won't  you  take  me  with  you,  I 
says.  Step  right  aboard,  says  he,  an'  I'm  damned  if  I  don't 
wish  I'd  a  load  more  like  you,  says  he." 

"  Bravo,"  cried  Muriel,  clapping  her  hands.  "  Good  for 
Ohio  !" 

"  Hooraw  for  Ohio  !"  piped  Tugmutton,  bouncing  up,  and 


158  HARRINGTON. 

flourishing  the  baby.  "  Chick-a-dee-dee,  Brudder  Baby,  pretty 
little  birdy,"  he  added,  with  a  sudden  change  of  key,  wagging 
his  bushy  head  and  grinning  blobber  cheeks  over  the  compla 
cent  infant.  "  Send  him  right  down  to  Ohio.  Kidnapper 
come  to  fetch  Brudder  Baby,  won't  have  no  more  chance  than 
a  bob-tail  horse  in  fly-time  when  he  gits  to  Ohio." 

Alas  !  poor  Tugmutton  ! — the  dark  days  could  come  even 
to  Ohio  !  Broad  and  strong  and  generous  the  hearts  of  Ohio, 
mighty  in  noble  impulse,  mighty  in  love  and  bravery,  mighty 
in  truth  to  liberty  and  tenderness  to  man.  But  the  rampart 
of  Ohio  hearts  prevailed  not  in  the  black  hour  when  Margaret 
Garner,  with  the  hell-dog  statute  and  the  hunters  upon  her, 
sublimely  slew  her  children  to  save  from  slavery  the  souls  Ohio 
could  not  save. 

"  And  so  you  escaped,  Mr.  Roux,"  said  Emily. 

"  Yes,  madam,"  returned  Roux,  "  the  captain  took  me  all  the 
way  up  to  Cincinnati.  Where  are  ye  goin'  now,  William,  says 
he.  Boston,  says  I.  Men,  says  he,  let's  give  him  an  Ohio 
lift.  Wich  meant  takin'  up  a  collection,  madam,"  explained 
Roux,  bowing.  "  An'  the  collection  was  fifteen  dollars  and 
thirty-three  cents,  madam,  together  with  a  suit  of  the  cap 
tain's  clothes,  an'  soine  vittles  in  a  paper  bag.  Captain,  says 
I,  my  gratefulness  will  never  fail.  William,  says  he,  just  hold 
on  to  that  carving-knife,  an'  don't  let  yourself  be  taken. 
Captain,  says  I,  if  I  ever  git  to  heaven,  I'll  make  the  Lord 
acquainted  with  all  you've  done  for  me.  William,  says  he, 
don't  you  never  acquaint  anybody  but  the  Lord  with  it,  or 
I'm  a  gone  coon.  An'  now  make  tracks,  says  he.  So  I  made 
tracks,  an'  come  on  safe  to  Boston." 

"Well,  I  declare  !"  exclaimed  Emily,  drawing  a  long 
breath,  and  looking  around  her.  "  It  makes  my  blood  boil  to 
think  that  men  are  treated  so  in  this  country.  And  you  never 
heard  from  your  brother,  Mr.  Roux  ?" 

"  Never,  madam.  But  I  don't  think  he's  alive.  I'm  afeared 
that  Master  Lafitte  would  kill  him  to  be  revenged  on  me,  and 
that  makes  me  feel,  sometimes,  as  if  I'd  murdered  my  own 
brother." 

He  said  this  in  low,  ghostly  tones,  with  a  sudden  agony  and 


HAEEINGTON.  159 

horror  convulsing  Ms  dark  face.  It  is  impossible  to  describe 
the  shock  of  awful  emotion  which  his  words  gave  to  Emily. 
There  was  a  moment  of  solemn  silence,  in  which  Roux  stood 
faintly  gasping,  with  his  swart  visage  ashen  and  distorted  with 
overmastering  anguish,  and  she,  gazing  on  him  with  a  blanched 
countenance,  felt  as  if  her  very  soul  would  die  with  pity. 

"  Couldn't  he  be  bought  ?"  she  timidly  stammered,  at  length, 
half  feeling  that  she  was  proposing  an  absurdity.  "  That  is — 
I  mean  if  he  is — if  he  has  not — died." 

Roux  despairingly  shook  his  head. 

"If  I  had  the  money,  madam,"  he  hoarsely  faltered,  "I'd 
try  to  buy  him.  But  that'll  never  be — never." 

"  I'll  engage  to  furnish  the  money,"  said  Emily,  vehemently, 
the  generous  color  flooding  her  face  like  fire.  "I  will,"  she 
added,  stamping  her  foot  as  she  sat.  "If  it  costs  me  two 
thousand  dollars,  or  twice  two  thousand,  it  shall  be  done." 

A  dead  silence  ensued,  in  which  she  gazed  at  their  mute 
faces.  It  was  the  brave  New  England  scholar  who  did  sweet 
service  to  liberty  when  the  guns  of  tyranny  stormed  on  Rome 
— it  was  Margaret  Fuller  who  once  gave  away  all  her  little 
property,  five  hundred  dollars,  to  a  poor  exile,  a  stranger  to 
her,  whose  distresses  had  touched  her  heart.  Born  of  such  an 
impulse,  and  kindred  to  that  splendid  generosity,  was  this  act 
of  Emily's. 

"  Why  do  you  all  look  so  ?"  she  continued.  "  I  mean  what 
I  say." 

Harrington  and  Muriel,  to  whom  she  lifted  her  flushed  face, 
were  standing  near  each  other,  Muriel's  face  still,  solemn,  and 
turned  toward  the  window,  Harrington's  noble  countenance 
rigid,  and  bent  upon  the  floor.  The  Captain  stood  looking  at 
Emily  with  his  head  bent  on  one  side,  and  his  features  all 
atwist.  As  for  Roux,  his  black  visage  was  wildly  lighted  with 
hope,  joy,  awe,  and  startled  amazement,  while  Tugmutton  sat 
in  the  low  chair,  with  the  baby  in  his  arms,  his  mouth  open, 
his  huge  eyes  staring,  and  the  big  shocks  of  wool  on  his  head 
seeming  bigger  than  ever  in  his  astonishment. 

"  It  shall  be  done,  I  say,"  declared  Emily.  "  Harrington,  I 
depend  on  you  to  show  me  the  way." 


160  HARRINGTON. 

Harrington  looked  blank — like  one  who  did  not  know  how 
to  answer  her ;  then  furtively  glanced  at  Roux,  and  then  at 
the  floor. 

"  You  are  the  soul  of  generosity,  Miss  Ames/'  he  said,  after 
a  pause,  smiling  constrainedly.  "  I  should  be  happy  to  help 
you.  We  will  see  what  can  be  done." 

Roux  clasped  his  hands  and  bowed  his  head.  In  that  instant, 
Harrington  flashed  a  lightning  glance  at  Emily,  so  stern,  so 
menacing,  so  agonized  in  its  look  of  warning  and  entreaty,  that 
Emily  was  confounded.  The  next  second,  Roux's  face  was 
raised,  and  Harrington's  wore  an  expression  of  such  bland  indif 
ference,  that  Emily  could  hardly  believe  she  had  seen  the  other. 

"  We  will  speak  of  this  another  time,"  said  Harrington. 
"  At  present,  I  think  I  must  go.  Shall  I  see  you  to  the  car 
riage,  ladies,  or  do  you  remain  longer  ?" 

Roux  threw  himself  on  his  knees,  and  bending,  grovelled  at 
Emily's  feet.  Then  raising  his  black  face,  convulsed,  and 
streaming  with  tears,  he  faltered  out  the  broken  words  of  his 
gratitude. 

"  I'll  pray  for  ye,  forever  and  ever,  Miss  Ames,"  he  said. 
"  I'll  pray  to  the  Lord  for  ye,  Miss  Ames.  And  the  blessing 
of  the  Father  and  of  the  Son  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  be  on 
ye,  Miss  Ames.  I've  had  a  good  deal  of  kindness,  but  there's 
never  been  no  kindness  like  yours,  Miss  Ames,  an'  I  don't  want 
ye  to  give  away  all  that  money,  madam,  for  it's  a  mighty  deal 
of  money,  though  it's  for  my  brother,  Miss  Ames,  and  I'd  clean 
give  my  life  to  see  my  poor  brother,  madam.  And  oh,  if 
Master  Lafitte  will  only  sell  him,  if  he's  alive,  madam,  I'll 
pray  for  him  too,  and  for  everybody,  forever  and  ever,  amen, 
an'  for  you  more  especial  than  anybody,  for  there  never  was 
such  kindness  as  yours  to  a  poor,  miser'ble,  forsaken  black  man 
— no,  never,  never." 

Uncouth  words  poured  forth  rapidly  in  a  weak,  broken 
voice,  with  sobs  and  tears  ;  but  words  that  blanched  the  gold 
and  roses  of  the  face  that  bent  with  swimming  eyes  over  the 
bowed  and  weeping  figure  on  the  floor.  In  the  cold,  succeed 
ing  silence,  there  was  no  sound  but  the  dim  sobs  of  Roux. 
The  Captain  stood  with  his  features  screwed  into  a  hard  rigor, 


HARRINGTON.  161 

gazing  at  the  abject  form  beneath  him.  Harrington's  face  was 
wan  'and  rigid,  and  fixed  on  vacancy.  The  two  little  ones, 
frightened  and  almost  crying,  clung  around  the  stupefied  and 
staring  Tugmutton,  who  sat  holding  the  baby,  with  the  big 
whites  of  his  eyes  glaring  at  Roux  from  the  ashy  pallor  of  his 
fat  visage. 

"  Mr.  Roux."  ' 

At  the  gentle,  silver  tones  of  Muriel,  at  the  firm  touch  of 
her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  the  negro  lifted  up  his  bowed  head 
from  his  breast,  and  gazed  with  a  haggard,  beseeching  face, 
all  wet  with  tears,  at  the  benignant  countenance  that  bent 
above  him.  For  an  instant  only,  and  then  rising  to  his  feet, 
ashamed  of  his  emotion,  yet  unable  to  repress  it  wholly,  the 
poor  fellow  stood  awkwardly  wiping  away  his  tears  with  his 
rough  sleeve,  with  his  breast  heaving,  and  the  stertorous  sobs 
still  breaking  from  him. 

"  It  will  all  be  well,"  said  Muriel,  gently.  "  Do  not  grieve, 
Mr.  Roux." 

"  Yes,  Miss  Eas'man,  I  wont  ;  indeed  I  wont  grieve.  But 
sometimes  I  git  desperate,  Miss  Eas'man/'  he  faltered.  "  'Pears 
sometimes  as  if  everybody  was  against  us  colored  folks,  Miss 
Eas'man." 

"  Cheer  up,  Roux,  we  are  all  your  friends  here." 

It  was  the  strong,  sweet  baritone  of  Harrington  that 
sounded  now.  Roux  looked  up,  smiling  mournfully,  into  the 
masculine,  calm  features,  w  hich  strangely  comforted  him. 

"  Yes,  Roux,  cheer  up's  the  word.  'Tan't  always  goin'  to 
be  slavery  arid  slaveholders  in  this  free  and  happy  country, 
mind  that,  my  man." 

Thus  the  Captain,  shaking  a  fore-finger  at  the  negro,  and 
then  cheerfully  punching  him  in  the  ribs  with  it. 

"  An'  if  I  catch  any  kidnappers  round  this  establishment, 
I'll  heave  a  brick  at  him,"  screeched  Tugmutton,  in  a  rage, 
glaring  with  rolling  eyes  at  everybody  over  the  baby. 

Emily,  who  had  risen,  and  stood  wiping  her  eyes  with  a 
cambric  handkerchief,  burst  into  laughter,  in  which  Muriel 
and  Harrington  joined.  Tugmutton  looked  awfully  irate  for 
an  instant,  and  then  grinned  sheepishly. 


162  HARRINGTON. 

"  Come,  come,"  said  Muriel,  "  we  must  be  going.  Where's 
the  basket  ?  Oh,  there  it  is  on  the  floor.  Mr.  Roux,"  she 
continued,  stooping  down  to  it,  and  unpacking,  "  I  won't  go  in 
again  to  your  wife — by  the  way,  I  hope  our  talk  has  not  dis 
turbed  her — but  here  are  some  baby-clothes  which  I  wore 
myself  when  I  was  a  baby — old  things  which  I  found  yester 
day,  but  they'll  do  for  the  little  boy.  And  here's  some  nice 
beef  and  a  pie,  which  my  mother  had  cooked  expressly  for 
your  dinner  to-day.  And  here's  my  copy  of  '  Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin,'  which  you  told  me  you  hadn't  read.  When  you  and 
your  wife  are  done  with  it,  Tugmutton,  as  you  call  him,  can 
bring  it  up  to  the  house,  with  the  plates  and  napkins." 

The  famous  Uncle  Tom  had  recently  issued  from  the  Boston 
press,  and  begun  its  illustrious  journey  through  Christendom. 
Muriel  handed  the  two  volumes  to  Roux,  who  took  them 
timidly,  with  a  low  bow,  immensely  gratified.  The  napkined 
meat  and  pie,  she  had  already  laid  on  the  table,  with  the 
package  of  baby-clothes. 

"And  that's  all,"  said  Muriel,  arranging  the  remaining 
contents  of  the  basket  under  the  fond  eyes  of  Harrington. 
"  The  other  things  are  for  our  Irish  cousins  in  North  Russell 
Street.  You,  John,  shall  carry  the  basket  out  to  the  carriage. 
Now  let's  go." 

"  Miss  Eas'man,"  said  Roux,  "  I'm  so  much  obliged  " 

"  Never  mind,  Mr.  Roux,"  interrupted  Muriel,  smiling  gaily, 
" I  see  all  that.  Goodbye." 

She  stooped  to  kiss  the  children,  then  with  a  curtsey, 
glided  from  the  room.  Roux,  timidly  rubbing  his  hands  one 
within  another,  bowed  after  her,  almost  servile  in  his  reverence. 
.  Tugmutton,  severely  dignified,  and  swelling  like  the  frog  that 
tried  to  be  an  ox,  with  the  proud  consciousness  that  some 
thing  great  had  been  done,  and  that  it  was  all  due  to  him, 
stood  in  the  centre  of  the  floor,  with  the  baby  clasped  against 
his  shoulder,  and  serenely  waved  his  big  paw  in  token  of  his 
distinguished  consideration.  Emily  smiled  at  him,  and  bow 
ing  to  Roux,  swept  with  a  rich  rustle  of  silk  after  Muriel, 
followed  by  Harrington  with  the  basket.  The  Captain  lin 
gered  to  bounce  up  Tom  and  Josey  once  apiece  to  the  ceiling, 


HARRINGTON.  163 

and  to  poke  Roux  in  the  ribs  with  an  anti-slavery  forefinger, 
and  then,  shaking  his  fist  at  the  grinning  Tugmutton,  departed 
also. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  HUNTER. 

MURIEL  and  Emily  were  sitting  on  the  back  seat  of  the  car 
riage  as  the  Captain  came  down  Roux's  steps,  nodding  as  he 
passed,  and  went  down  the  street  alone. 

"  Driver,  North  Russell  street,  arid  walk  the  horses,"  said 
Harrington,  leaping  in  on  the  front  seat,  beside  the  basket. 

The  carriage  immediately  set  off  as  directed,  and  Harring 
ton,  leaning  forward,  took  Emily's  gloved  hands  in  his,  and 
looked  fervently  into  her  beautiful  face.  Emily  did  not  turn 
away  this  time,  but  forgetting  that  she  thought  him  her  lover, 
in  her  perception  of  an  expression  which  recalled  the  look  he 
had  flashed  at  her  in  the  room  a  few  moments  before,  gazed 
anxiously  with  a  vague  tremor  into  his  countenance,  in  which 
the  winged  nostrils  were  lifting. 

"  What  is  it,  Harrington  ?"  she  faltered;  "  I'm  afraid  I  have 
done  something  wrong,  though  " 

"  No,  dear  Emily,"  interrupted  Harrington;  "  nothing  wrong 
Only  unfortunate.  You  spoke  from  impulse;  but  it  would 
have  been  better  not  to  have  said  what  you  did  before 
Roux." 

"  I  understand,"  she  replied,  hurriedly.  "  I  have  raised  hopes 
which  may  never  be  gratified.  Heaven  forgive  me  1  0  how 
thoughtless  it  was  !" 

Muriel  put  one  arm  around  her,  and  looked  into  her  face, 
with  tender  sympathy. 

"You  will  think  me  ostentatious,"  faltered  Emily,  tears 
wetting  her  long  lashes;  "but,  Harrington,  it  is  not  so.  The 
poor  man's  distress  touched  me  so  keenly,  that  I  could  not 
forbear  saying  what  I  did." 


164:  HAKEINGTON. 

"  No,  Emily,"  warmly  returned  Harrington,  "  you  mistake. 
I  do  not  think  your  offer  was  made  in  ostentation.  Don't 
think  me  insensible  to  the  splendid  generosity  that  would  give 
so  large  a  sum  to  bring  joy  to  the  home  of  a  poor,  despised 
negro,  and  he  a  stranger  to  you.  It  is  not  a  common  heart 
that  could  enter  into  the  depths  of  his  sorrow,  and  so  promptly 
seek  to  relieve  it.  But,  listen,  Emily.  Muriel  and  I  have  a 
secret  to  tell  you." 

He  released  her  hands  to  take  a  wallet  from  his  breast 
pocket,  from  which  he  drew  a  letter. 

"  God  knows,"  he  resumed  sadly,  "  it  is  at  best  a  noble  folly 
to  give  away  wealth,  as  you  would  do,  to  ransom  one  man 
from  that  dismal  pit  of  slavery  when  nearly  four  millions  with 
as  strong  a  claim  on  our  hearts  must  be  left  behind.  And  yet 
these  individual  cases  come  to  us  so  like  special  claims,  that  we 
cannot  deny  them.  See  now — in  this  noble  folly  there  was 
another  heart  before  you.  Yes,  Emily,  Muriel,  too,  was 
touched  to  the  ransom  of  Roux's  brother." 

"  Muriel !"  exclaimed  Emily.    • 

"We  said  nothing  to  Roux,"  gpn  tinned  Harrington,  "for 
the  result  was  doubtful.  And  we  had  to  proceed  with  caution 
lest  this  Lafitte  should  seek  to  capture  him.  I  wrote  a  letter, 
which  I  had  mailed  from  Philadelphia.  Here  is  the  fiend's 
answer,  received  two  months  ago.  Don't  read  it  unless  you 
have  strong  nerves." 

Emily  eagerly  snatched  the  letter  from  Harrington,  and 
looked  at  the  envelope.  It  was  postmarked  from  Marksville, 
Louisiana,  and  directed  to  John  Harrington,  Esquire,  care  of 
Joseph  House,  Esquire,  Philadelphia,  Pennsylvania. 

"  Jo  House  is  a  young  literary  friend  of  mine — an  editor," 
observed  Harrington.  "  I  explained  the  matter  to  him,  telling 
the  reason  for  secrecy,  and  got  him  to  mail  the  letter  for  me, 
and  transmit  the  answer.  And  by  the  way,"  he  continued, 
"  to  give  you  an  idea  of  the  risk  of  dealing  with  such  a  man  as 
Lafitte,  let  me  tell  you  that  since  this  letter  was  received, 
Lafitte  has  been  up  to  Philadelphia,  and  called  on  Jo  for  my 
address,  desiring,  he  said,  to  enter  into  negotiation  with  me 
for  the  sale  of  Antony." 


HARRINGTON.  165 

"  Good  Heavens  I"  exclaimed  Emily,  with  sudden  alarm,  "  I 
hope  your  friend  did  not  tell  him  where  you  were." 

Harrington  laughed. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  he  replied.  "  What  do  you  think  Jo 
told  him  ?  He  told  him  with  the  utmost  gravity  that  I  re 
sided  in  London.  And  when  Lafitte  looked  incredulous,  the 
jolly  young  Bohemian  produced  a  London  Directory  he  hap 
pened  to  have,  and  showed  him  my  name  among  the  Harring 
tons,  offering  to  copy  the  address  for  him." 

Emily  laughed  delightedly. 

"  That  was  a  brilliant  fib,  I  declare,"  said  she.  "  What 
did  Lafitte  say  ?" 

"  Jo  wrote  me  that  he  looked  as  blank  as  a  board,  declined 
the  offer,  and  went  away.  I  can  imagine  that  Jo's  perfect 
soberness — for  he's  an  awfully  solemn-looking  fellow — together 
with  the  circumstance  of  the  London  Directory  being  in  his 
possession,  convinced  Lafitte  of  the  truth  of  the  statement, 
and  I'll  be  bound  he  thinks  Roux  is  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Atlantic  with  my  namesake." 

Harrington  laughed,  but  his  laugh  ended  in  a  deep  and 
weary  sigh.  Emily  took  the  letter  from  the  envelope,  opened 
it,  and  began  to  read,  while  Muriel  looked  with  sad  tranquil 
lity  out  at  the  carriage  windows.  The  letter,  read  slowly  in 
the  swaying  carriage,  ran  thus  : 


LAFITTE  PLANTATION, 

Pariah  of  Avoyelles,  Louisiana. 
JOHN  HARRINGTON,  Esquire : 

MY  DEAR  SIR  :  Your  letter  (appropriately  dated  the  7th  of 
March — a  souvenir  of  dear  Mr.  Webster — bless  him!  I  can't  think  of 
that  great  speech  without  emotion — it  was  so  noble)  came  to  hand.  In 
reply  I  beg  to  say  that  the  dear  Antony  is  alive  and  well,  and,  vicari 
ously,  sends  his  love  and  this  little  bunch  of  his  wool  to  his  beloved 
brother,  whom  you  do  not  mention,  but  who  is  undoubtedly  under 
your  wing.  So  penetrated  was  the  dear  boy  with  a  refluent  sense  of 
his  brother's  beastly  ingratitude  in  leaving  me,  his  affectionate  master, 
that  he  was  really  unwilling  to  part  with  the  wool,  which  I  finally  tore 
with  loving  violence  from  his  black  pate,  and  send  in  his  behalf  to  your 
charge  for  the  wicked  William.  As  for  Antony,  the  dear  boy  loves  me 
so  much  that  no  money  could  persuade  him  to  leave  me,  and  for  my 


166  HARRINGTON. 

part,  I  am  so  fond  of  him,  that  millions  would  not  induce  me  to  part 
with  him.  Thus,  my  dear  sir,  you  will  perceive  that  Antony  is  riot  for 
sale  at  any  price. 

I  may  add  that  dear  Antony  is  a  devout  believer  in  the  doctrine  of 
vicarious  atonement,  and  was  so  overcome  with  a  new  conviction  of 
his  brother's  wickedness  in  leaving  me,  that  he  insisted  on  being  trussed 
up  and  receiving  fifty  lashes,  which  I  administered  with  my  own  hand, 
of  course  with  tears  in  my  eyes.  I  am  sure  that  if  the  depraved  Wil 
liam  could  have  heard  dear  Antony's  howls,  he  would  have  been 
stricken  to  the  heart  with  a  sense  of  his  own  unworthiness,  and  of  the 
grandeur  of  this  atoning  love.  To  be  frank  with  you,  I  am  concerned 
lest  Antony  should  carry  his  vicarious  notions  to  the  extent  of  demand 
ing  to  be  crucified  for  William's  sins.  In  which  case,  I  should  feel 
compelled  to  oblige  him.  It  would  be  difficult  to  carry  out  this  sublime 
design;  but,  at  a  pinch,  I  could  send  away  my  overseer,  and  ride  with 
Antony  into  the  swamp,  where  we  could  readily  extemporize  a  Calvary. 

Give  my  love  to  Mr.  Joseph  House,  who  does  your  Philadelphia  mail 
ing,  and  believe  me,  dear  sir, 

Affectionately  yours, 

ToRwobo  LAFITTE. 
March  15th,  1852. 


Emily  turned  white  as  marble  over  this  insolent  and  horri 
ble  epistle,  and,  with  her  lips  colorless,  looked  at  Harrington, 
who  took  the  letter  from  her  hand. 

"  Charles  Simmer  has  been  in  the  Senate  for  six  months, 
silent,"  remarked  Harrington.  "  I  have  a  mind  to  send  him 
this  letter." 

"  Now,  John,"  said  Muriel,  smiling,  "  I  won't  tolerate  any 
reflections  on  my  neighbor.  Every  time  I  pass  his  house  in 
Temple  street,  I  think  that  he  has  not  gone  to  Washington  for 
nothing.  Wait  a  little,  and  you  shall  hear  the  leap  of  the 
live  thunder.  In  the  meantime,  as  the  knight  Durindarte  said 
to  the  weeping  queen  Belerma,  'patience,  and  shuffle  the 
cards.' " 

"  You  are  right,  Muriel,"  returned  Harrington,  with  a  faint 
smile,  "  we  talk  of  his  silence  now,  but  we  shall  yet  talk  of  his 
speech.  Yes,  the  heart  lives  that  shook  Faneuil  Hall  for 
liberty,  and  we  must  not  be  impatient.  But  sometimes  I  des 
pond,  for  it  seems  the  destiny  of  our  best  men  to  lose  power 
and  purpose  when  they  get  into  Congress." 


HARRINGTON.  167 

11  No  matter,"  replied  Muriel.  "  As  King  Pellinore  said  to 
Merlin,  '  God  may  foredoo  well  destiny.'  n 

Harrington  bent  his  head  abstractedly. 

"  But  to  return/7  said  he.  "  You  observe,  Emily,  that  the 
only  result  of  my  letter  was  to  bring  torture  upon  poor  An 
tony.  In  the  letter  was  a  bunch  of  the  poor  fellow's  hair, 
which  this  moral  idiot  tore  from  his  head.  You  see,  too,  he 
flogged  him  in  mere  wantonness  of  cruelty.  From  all  Roux 
tells  me  of  the  character  of  this  man,  Ffear  that  he  will  end 
by  killing  Antony;  and  it  is  not  too  much  to  suppose,  that 
with  the  opportunities  the  slave  system  gives  him,  he  may 
even  do  it  in  the  manner  he  suggests.  Murders  as  dreadful 
take  place  on  those  obscure  plantations,  as  escaped  slaves  tell 
us.  Just  see  the  infernal  nature  of  a  system  which  gives 
a  fiend  like  this  absolute,  irresponsible  control  over  his 
fellow  creatures!  Here  is  this  pirate,  with  a  pirate's  name 
and  a  pirate's  disposition  ;  and  the  law  of  Louisiana,  as  of 
every  Southern  State  in  the  Union,  entrusts  to  his  care  as 
many  men  and  women  as  he  may  choose  to  buy  ;  and  while  it 
sanctions,  by  express  statute,  various  degrees  of  cruelty  toward 
them,  makes  it  impossible  to  hold  hpn  to  account  for  the  most 
merciless  torture  and  murder,  by  excluding  the  testimony  of 
slaves." 

Emily  listened,  with  a  countenance  deathly  pale. 

"  I  declare,  Harrington,"  she  said,  "when  I  read  that  letter 
I  felt  as  if  the  earth  had  cracked  and  shown  me  a  glimpse  of 
hell.  Is  it  possible  that  there  can  be  such  men  as  this  ?  Are 
there  many  of  them  at  the  South  ?" 

Harrington  did  not  reply  for  a  moment,  and  sat  sadly  look 
ing  into  vacancy. 

"  It  is  not  Southern  nature,"  he  said,  at  length,  "  it  is  human 
nature.  It  is  human  nature  depraved  by  a  tyranny,  and 
licensed,  practically  licensed,  even  in  its  wildest  excesses,  by  a 
tyrant  code.  Read  Shakspeare  ;  there  you  have  in  represen 
tative  figures,  the  scientific  account  of  man.  Here  is  Shak- 
speare's  Chiron,  Demetrius,  lago,  Cloten — a  moral  monster 
with  statutory  power  to  hold  slaves,  and  treat  them  at-  his 
pleasure.  But  the  blame  is  less  with  him  than  with  the  polity 


168  HAJtKINGTON. 

from  which  he  sprang — which  organized  him  and  reared  him. 
Bating  for  their  life-long  education  in  despotism,  Southern  men 
are  no  worse  than  Northern  men.  Put  the  code  of  Louisiana 
over  Massachusetts,  and  you  shall  have  the  self-same  results. 
Look  at  our  Northern  marine — that  blot  on  our  democracy; 
how  does  the  despotism  of  it  work  on  our  captains,  even  with 
some  sort  of  a  legal  check  upon  them  ?  Read  the  criminal 
reports,  or  talk  with  seamen,  and  learn  how  Northern  cap 
tains  can  maltreat  tte  men  under  their  command.  No — 
human  nature  is  no  more  incapable  of  degeneracy  in  Massa 
chusetts  than  in  Louisiana.  If  people  are  better  here,  it  is 
because  conditions  are  better." 

"Such  men  as  this  Lafitte  are  more  to  be  pitied  than 
blamed,"  said  Muriel,  gently.  "  I  wish  we  were  great  enough 
to  feel  so." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  in  which  nothing  was  heard 
but  the  slow  rattle  of  the  carriage-wheels  over  the  paving- 
stones. 

"You  see,  Emily,"  said  Harrington,  sadly,  breaking  the 
pause,  "  that  your  promise  to  Roux  cannot  be  fulfilled.  It  is 
now  our  painful  problem  how  to  destroy  his  new  hope,  without 
giving  him  the  anguish  of  an  explanation.  We  are  in  a  very 
difficult  position." 

"  Oh,  if  I  had  only  known  of  this !"  cried  Emily,  in  bitter 
distress.  "  As  long  as  Roux  expected  nothing,  he  had  only 
his  ordinary  pain.  But  I  have  lifted  the  poor  man  to  this 
height  only  to  dash  him  into  a  pit  of  despair." 

"Hush,  dear  Emily,"  said  Muriel,  tenderly.  "Do  not 
reproach  yourself.  You  could  not  have  imagined  tthat  an 
effort  had  been  made  to  buy  Roux's  brother.  So  don't  feel 
badly  about  it.  We  will  devise  some  means  of  escape  out  of 
this  dilemma.  What  I  am  most  afraid  of  is,  that  Lafitte 
may,  after  all,  find  out  Harrington,  and  get  on  the  track  of 
Roux." 

"  In  which  case,"  said  Harrington,  tranquilly,  "  it  would  be 
a  good  idea  to  take  him  to  Southac  street  and  show  him 
Roux's  house." 

"  Harrington  1"  exclaimed  Emily,  almost  shrilly. 


HARRINGTON.  169 

"  Yes  indeed  it  would,"  said  Harrington,  quietly.  "  But  be 
fore  I  showed  him  the  house,  I  would  say  two  words  to 
Elkanah  Brown.  I'll  engage  that  he  would  hurry  back  to  the 
pirate  civilization  that  spawned  him,  resolved  never  to  set 
foot  in  Boston  again.  The  negroes  here  would  sound  a  roar 
in  his  ears  that  he  would  remember  to  his  dying  day." 

"  Good  Heavens,  Harrington,"  cried  Emily,  "  they  would 
kill  him  !" 

Harrington's  face  was  calm,  but  his  blue  eyes  gleamed,  and 
his  broad  nostrils  lifted  with  passionate  emotion. 

"  And  if  I  were  an  American  patriot,  pure  and  simple,"  he 
replied,  "  I  would  answer  that  it  would  be  no  matter  if  they 
did,  and  that  Bunker  Hill  is  near  enough  to  keep  tyrannicide 
in  countenance.  You  remember  what  one  of  our  leading 
Whigs  said  in  convention  many  years  ago — in  the  time,  when 
to  be  a  Whig  was  not  to  be  a  Webster  Whig,  with  a  fine 
speech  for  kidnapping.  '  Why,  sir,'  foamed  a  slaveholder,  '  if 
your  doctrines  obtain,  our  slaves  would  cut  our  throats  for  us.' 
1  And  in  God's  name,'  said  our  Whig  friend,  tossing  the 
words  over  his  shoulder — 'in  God's  name,  why  shouldn't 
they  !" 

"  Oh,  Harrington,  Harrington,"  said  Emily,  shaking  her 
head,  "is  this  you?  I  did  not  think  John  Harrington  had 
the  heart  to  hate  any  man — not  even  Lafitte — much  less  kill 
him,  or  see  him  killed." 

"  Nor  has  he,"  said  Muriel,  quickly. 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Harrington,  calmly  ;  "  at  least  so  far 
as  the  hating  goes.  It  may  be  a  defect  in  my  organization, 
but  I  have  never  known  what  it  is  to  hate  anybody.  I 
hope  I  never  may.  As  for  killing  men,  or  seeing  them 
killed,  that  is  another  matter.  I  believe  that  I  could  do  both 
the  one  and  the  other  without  a  pang.  This  Lafitte — a  man 
in  whom  there  is  not  one  trait  worthy  to  be  called  human — I 
could  kill  him  or  see  him  killed  without  the  least  regret.  It 
is  not  his  death  but  his  life  that  should  be  regretted." 

"But,  Harrington,"  said  Emily,  "this  is  impossible.  How 
could  you  beat  a  man,  much  less  kill  him,  without  hating 
him  ?" 


170  HARRINGTON. 

"  Christ  beat  the  money  changers  in  the  temple  :  Was  that 
hate  ?"  answered  Harrington. 

Emily  smiled  vaguely. 

"  Well,"  she  continued,  "  that  is  ingenious — but  not  conclu 
sive.  Besides,  to  beat  men  is  not  to  kill  them.  You  could 
hardly  kill  a  man  without  hating  him." 

"  Xenophon  says  Socrates  shore  down  a  soldier  in  the  bat 
tle,  and  blessed  him  as  he  died  :  Was  that  hate  ?"  answered 
Harrington. 

Emily  colored  slightly,  and  looked  up  smiling  into  the 
calm  countenance  of  the  speaker. 

"  Death  is  not  the  worst  fate  that  may  befall  a  man,"  con 
tinued  Harrington.  "  If  to  kill  a  man  were  to  end  his  life, 
we  might  well  hold  our  hands.  But  the  soul  survives  the 
blow  that  slays  the  body." 

"  And  to  kill  a  man  is  only  to  shell  him,  Emily,"  said  Muriel 
with  a  smile. 

"  Mercy  !"  exclaimed  Emily,  laughing,  "  what  a  couple  of 
Robespierres  !" 

"  Seriously,  now,"  said  Harrington,  "  I  think  Muriel  is 
right.  A  killed  man  is  a  shelled  man,  and  not  a  dead  man. 
'  Where  shall  we  bury  you  ?'  asked  the  friends  arouncl,  the 
dying  Socrates.  And  the  escaping  soul  replied,  '  Wherever 
you  please,  if  you  can  catch  me.'  But  with  regard  to  this 
matter.  If  I  believed  in  free  will  and  moral  responsibility,  and 
all  the  doctrines  professedly  accepted  by  the  mass  of  my  fel 
low-citizens,  I  should  hold  that,  on  the  principle  of  justice, 
we  had  a  right  to  terminate  the  life  of  a  man  who  was 
willfully  using  it  to  the  injury  of  his  fellow-creatures.  For 
I  agree  with  Lord  Bacon  that  men  without  goodness  of 
nature  are  but  a  nobler  kind  of  vermin.  But,  as  I  happen  to 
think  that  such  men  are  the  necessary  product  of  an  unscien 
tific  order  of  society,  and  that  society  is  responsible  for  them 
and  their  misdeeds,  I  could  only  kill  them  at  the  cry  of  a  ter 
rible  expediency,  not  to  punish  them,  but  simply  to  arrest 
their  mischief.  At  the  same  time  I  go  with  Shakespeare, 
rather  to  '  prevent  the  fiend '  than  to  kill  the  fiend.  I  would 
not  kill  a  rattlesnake  lying  harmlessly  in  the  sun,  simply 


HARRINGTON.  171 

because  he  is  a  rattlesnake,  and  may  bite  to-morrow.  But  if  he 
coils  to  strike,  I  slay  him,  purely  as  a  measure  of  safety,  not  in 
hate,  not ,  forgetting  that  forces  external  to  him  organized  him 
for  malice  and  venom.  So,  too,  with  the  nobler  vermin — the 
human  reptiles.  I  do  not  hate  them  ;  I  pity  them.  I  do  not 
forget  that  they  are  a  consequence,  and  not  self-caused.  But 
I  cannot  let  them  flesh  their  fangs  in  the  innocent,  when  the 
saving  mercy  of  a  death-blow  can  rescue  their  blameless  vic 
tims  to  lives  of  human  use  and  accomplishment.  When  such 
men  as  Lafitte  come  here  to  hunt  the  poor,  I  baffle  and  drive 
them  away  if  I  can,  and,  as  a  last  resort,  I  kill  them.  That 
is  not  hate — it  is  love.  It  is  stern  love,  but  it  is  love.  Wo  to 
the  civilization  that  makes  it  necessary !  Wo  to  the  state  that 
suffers  an  injury  to  be  done  to  the  humblest  man  or  woman,  or 
leaves  his  or  her  protection  to  the  chance  charity  of  the  private 
citizen !  And  treble  wo  to  the  government  that  gives  despotic 
power  to  ruffians,  and  arms  and  guards  them  in  their  crime 
against  mankind  with  the  prestige  and  forms  of  civil  law  !" 

Harrington  ceased,  and  they  all  sat  in  silence  with  brooding 
faces. 

"  Well,  I  trust  that  this  wretch  may  never  trouble  Boston," 
said  Emily,  at  length,  with  a  sigh. 

"  I  trust  not,"  replied  Harrington.  "  He  is  shrewd  and  sub 
tle  though,  and  I  have,  I  own,  an  anxious  foreboding  that  he 
will  come  this  way.  I  am  sorry  I  wrote  that  letter.  You 
observed  the  underlined  sentence  in  his  reply,  didn't  you  ?  It 
is  curious  that  he  should  have  so  readily  conjectured  that  the 
letter  was  sent  to  Jo  House  to  mail." 

"  Very  curious,"  responded  Emily. 

"  Here's  North  Russell  street,"  said  Harrington.  "  I'll 
leave  you,  and  rush  home,  for  I  have  my  article  to  finish." 

"Harrington — whisper,"  said  Muriel,  bending  her  face 
toward  him  with  a  charming  smile. 

Harrington,  who  was  just  putting  out  his  hand  to  unfasten 
the  carriage  door,  leaned  forward,  while  Emily  turned  away. 
The  young  man  felt,  with  a  delicious  thrill,  the  balmy  breath 
of  Muriel  on  his  cheek,  and  her  soft  lips  touch  his  ear,  and  the 
hot  blood  flew  to  his  face  before  she  had  spoken  a  word. 


172  HARRINGTON. 

•*, 

"John,"  she  whispered,  "you  write  your  article  to  make 
some  money.  Hush,  now  !  Let  it  go,  and  let  me  supply  you 
— -just  for  once  now,  pray  do.  Don't  be  proud  and  foolish, 
but  let  me  make  you  a  present,  for  I  have  plenty,  and  come 
with  us  and  have  a  day  of  recreation,  for  you  are  pale  with 
work  and  study — now,  John." 

"  Now,  John,"  was  said  aloud  with  arch  reproach,  for  Har 
rington  had  drawn  back,  flushed  and  laughing,  with  a  gesture 
of  negation. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  he  answered,  gaily.     "  Did  I  ever  ?" 

"  No,  you  never  did,  bad  young  man  that  you  are,"  returned 
Muriel,  aloud,  with  a  face  of  playful  reproach.  "  But  see 
here,  John  " — she  bent  forward  again  to  whisper,  her  face  so 
sweetly  pleading  that  it  was  hard  to  resist  giving  the  besought 
audience. 

"  I  won't— that's  flat,"  said  Harrington,  laughing  and 
blushing,  and  putting  out  his  hand  to  the  hasp,  for  he  felt  that 
Muriel's  entreaty  was  getting  dangerous. 

"  Very  well,"  she  said.  "  That's  settled.  But  come  up  to 
tea  this  evening — come  up  early,  if  you  can,  and  we'll  have  a 
fencing  lesson,  and  then,  after  tea,  we'll  go  to  the  Convention, 
trusting  our  luck  to  hear  Wendell  Phillips.  How  will  that  do  T* 

11  Capital,"  replied  Harrington.     "  I'll  come." 

"  And  bring  Wentworth  with  you." 

"  Yes.     Good  bye.     Good  bye,  Emily." 

Emily  turned  and  nodded,  with  her  face  scarlet  at  the  men 
tion  of  Wentworth's  name.  She  had  been  living  in  broader 
life  for  the  last  hour,  and  now  her  heart  was  painfully  sinking 
back  to  its  private  love  and  sorrow. 

Without  stopping  the  carriage,  Harrington  opened  the  door, 
sprang  out,  and  walked  for  a  moment  between  the  wheels  to 
refix  the  hasp,  then  stepped  back,  touched  his  hat,  and  was 
gone.  * 

Muriel  turned  and  watched  from  the  oval  window  in  the 
back  of  the  carriage  his  martial  figure  as  it  strode  up  the 
street. 

"  There  goes  a  chevalier,"  she  said,  gaily,  as  she  turned 
away. 


HARRINGTON.  173 

"  Yes,"  replied  Emily.     "  First  in  war,  first  in  peace" 

"  And  first  in  the  hearts  of  his  countrywomen/'  concluded 
Muriel. 

They  laughed  merrily,  and  the  carriage  went  on. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

SCHOLAR   AND    SOLDIER. 

HARRINGTON  lived  in  Chambers  street,  not  far  from  where 
he  had  left  thb  carriage,  and  strode  on  over  the  pavement  of 
Cambridge  street  to  his  house,  drawing  in  deep  breaths  of  the 
delicious,  cool,  spring  air,  and  thinking  with  a  rapt  heart  of 
Muriel. 

It  was  a  perfect  day.  The  long  thoroughfare  sloping  gently, 
and  narrowing  away  into  distance,  with  its  descending  row  of 
irregular,  motley  buildings  of  brick  and  wood,  and  its  lines  of 
passengers,  was  fresh  and  salient  in  the  morning  sunlight. 
Blown  from  the  country,  wafts  of  woodland  odors,  balmy  as 
the  breath  of  Muriel,  floated  softly  to  his  sense.  Flowing  out 
of  the  west,  the  morning  wind,  light  as  the  lips  of  Muriel, 
touched  his  cheeks,  and  the  young  man's  heart  and  blood  were 
full  of  love  and  spring. 

O,  blessed  magic  of  one  little  moment,  which  had  repaired 
what  hours  and  days  undid  !  Her  breath  had  breathed  upon 
his  sense,  her  lips  had  met  his  cheek,  and  therefore,  all  thought 
that  she  loved  another,  all  evidence  that  her  soul  was  not 
in  secret,  firm  alliance  with  his  own,  had  vanished  in  the  flash 
of  rapture  which  filled  his  being.  And  more — the  phantoms 
which  surrounded  him  had  vanished  too.  Born  servant  and 
soldier  of  mankind,  he  was  often  made  to  feel  how  powerless 
he  was  in  the  great  social  war  of  the  many  against  the  one  ; 
and  at  such  times,  to  his  spirit,  as  to  that  of  many  a  lover  of 
men,  came  gloomy  spectres  from  the  world  of  complicated  wo 
and  wrong.  From  the  grim-grotesque,  sad,  turbulent  scene 
of  the  moraiug  street;  from  the  low  room  of  the  fugitive's 


4:  HARRINGTON. 

humbleness  and  anguish,  and  the  futile  generosity  of  the  patri 
cian  girl;  from  the  cloud  on  the  horizon  of  his  soul,  where 
glimmered  the  image  of  the  coming  hunter;  from  the  whole 
dark  consciousness  of  a  social  order  leagued  against  the  poor 
and  weak,  the  invading  phantoms  had  poured  like  midnight 
ghosts  around  him.  But  they  were  all  gone,  and  again  there 
was  strength  and  morning  in  his  soul.  The  spring  day  was 
sweet  and  beautiful  ;  perfume  and  victory  coursed  through  his 
veins  ;  the  noble  face  of  his  beloved  bloomed  in  his  heart  ;  her 
wild-rose  mouth  had  touched  him  like  the  envoy  of  a  costly 
kiss  ;  her  fragrant  breath  had  shot  his  blood  with  ecstasy  ; 
and  past  and  future  melted  into  the  rich  passion  of  the  present 
hour,  which  had  renewed  his  manhood  and  left  him  with  the 
pulse  and  thews  of  a  Crusader. 

Flushed  and  throbbing  with  the  bliss  of  his  thought  of  Mu 
riel,  he  reached  his  dwelling.  It  was  an  old,  three-storied, 
quaintly-fashioned  brick  house,  with  green  blinds,  windows  and 
window-panes  smaller  than  those  of  modern  date,  and  in  the 
centre,  up  three  stone  steps,  a  door  with  a  brass  knocker,  and 
a  brass  plate  below  it,  on  which  was  engraved  the  name,  E. 
Z.  FISHER.  The  house  breathed  in  an  air  fragrant  with  lilacs, 
whose  clumped  green  and  purple  bloomed  pleasantly  over 'the 
top  of  a  close  board  fence,  with  a  gate  in  it,  which  extended 
from  the  left  hand  side  of  the  tenement  to  the  blind  side-wall 
of  the  adjoining  dwelling,  and  inclosed  a  yard  within  which 
abutted  from  the  main  building  a  wing  of  two  stories.  In  this 
wing  dwelt  Harrington  ;  the  rest  of  the  house  was  occupied 
by  the  Captain  and  his  family. 

He  opened  the  gate  and  entered  the  yard,  which  was  in  fact 
a  small  garden.  A  planked  footway  led  from  the  gate  to  the 
two  wooden  steps  of  the  door  in  the  wing,  and  a  similar  foot 
way  crossed  this,  and  crooked  around  the  side  of  the  abutment. 
Lilac  bushes  were  planted  against  the  fence  and  the  blind 
wall  of  the  dwelling  on  the  left,  and  there  were  shrubs  and 
flowers  on  either  side  of  the  door,  and  around  the  wall  of  the 
wing.  It  was  a  pleasant  spot,  full  of  fragrance  and  retiracy. 

Without  pausing,  Harrington  unlocked  his  door  and  entered 
his  study.  It  was  a  square  room,  cool  and  quiet,  lit  by  two 


HAKKINGTON.  175 

green-curtained  front  windows  which  looked  on  the  garden, 
and  containing  several  hundred  volumes  on  shelves,  row  above 
row,  on  three  sides  of  the  apartment.  In  the  centre  was  a 
table  loaded  with  books  and  papers,  and  an  arm-chair.  Four 
or  five  choice  engravings  hung  in  spaces  between  the  book 
shelves,  and  on  one  side,  on  a  pedestal,  was  a  noble  bust  of 
Lord  Bacon.  A  set  of  foils  and  masks  hung  across  the  man 
tel,  and  a  huge  pair  of  dumb-bells  lay  on  the  floor  in  a  corner. 
A  carpet  of  green  baize,  an  old  sofa  between  the  windows, 
and  a  few  chairs,  completed  the  furniture  of  the  room,  whose 
only  other  noticeable  feature  was  a  slanting  step-ladder  on 
one  side,  leading  up  by  a  trap  in  the  ceiling  into  Harrington's 
bed-chamber. 

Throwing  himself  into  his  arm-chair,  the  young  scholar  took 
from  a  drawer,  and  pressed  to  his  lips,  a  little  bunch  of  with 
ered  herbs,  which  Muriel  had  held  in  her  hand  one  evening 
two  or  three  weeks  before,  and  given  him  at  parting.  Their 
dry  balsamic  odor  stole  softly  to  his  brain,  freighted  with  the 
thought  of  the  white  hand  that  gave  them,  and  closing  his 
eyes,  he  abandoned  himself  to  ecstatic  dreams. 

In  a  few  minutes,  a  barrel-organ  began  to  play  outside  his 
gate.  It  was  a  peculiarly  sweet  instrument — some  people  in 
the  region  of  Beacon  Hill  may  remember  it  as  the  one  they 
used  to  follow  from  street  to  street  on  balmy  summer  evenings, 
so  loth  were  they  to  part  with  its  melody.  Harrington  was 
fond  of  all  barrel-organs  that  were  at  all  melodious — the  poor 
man's  opera,  he  used  to  call  them,  associating  them  with  the 
delight  they  gave  to  little  children  and  the  dwellers  in  poor 
houses,  and  always  pleased  to  have  them  bring  Italy  into  the 
street,  as  some  one  has  felicitously  phrased  it.  The  organist, 
sure  of  his  reward  whenever  his  patron  was  at  home,  came  often 
to  the  house.  On  this  occasion,  Harrington  had  no  sooner 
heard  the  first  notes,  than  he  twisted  up  some  change  in  paper, 
and  opening  the  door,  tossed  it  over  the  gate.  The  instrument 
stopped  in  the  midst  of  the  tune,  and  while  the  man  was  picking 
up  the  largesse,  Harrington  opened  his  windows,  and  resumed 
his  chair  to  enjoy  the  music. 

A  rich  light  gush  of  lilac  fragrance  which  seemed  to  blend 


176  HARRINGTON. 

with  the  brilliant  melody  of  the  polacca  the  organ  played, 
poured  in  at  the  open  windows,  and  melted  into  his  mood. 
He  sat  softly  beating  with  his  hand  the  dance  of  the  tune, 
with  the  debonair  image  of  Muriel  floating  in  melody  through 
his  fancy.  She  came  again,  expressed  in  a  tenderer  mood,  as 
the  music  changed  to  a  strain  of  yearning  and  dreamful  sweet 
ness,  like  a  poem  of  deep  love.  Then  followed  one  of  the 
negro  melodies  of  the  day,  a  simple  and  mournful  air,  with 
notes  of  anguish,  and  still  she  was  present  in  his  mind  linked 
with  a  shadowy  remembrance  of  the  wrongs  and  sorrows  of 
the  race  to  whose  low  estate  her  heart  stooped  so  often  to 
help  and  console.  Soul  in  soul,  he  moved  with  her  through  the 
rich  and  melancholy  maze  of  the  succeeding  music — a  sombre 
and  sumptuous  Italian  rornanza,  crowded  with  slow  passion 
and  tumult,  with  notes  that  swelled  and  poured  athwart  the 
central  theme,  like  some  dim  innumerable  host  of  love  and  sor 
row  gathering  and  forming,  and  dividing  again  in  baffled  and 
harmonious  disorder.  Air  upon  air  came  after,  and  sinking 
away,  the  listener  lost  for  awhile  their  melody  and  meaning, 
and  only  knew  that  they  were  sweet  and  sad  ;  till  rising  from 
reverie  he  heard  the  last  of  a  solemn  and  tender  strain  like 
some  delicious  psalm  of  death  and  life  immortal. 

It  ceased  ;  there  was  a  pause,  and  the  world's  hopes  and 
struggles  surged  in  upon  his  kindled  spirit,  as  the  organ  rolled 
forth  in  golden  sweetness  the  martial  and  mournful  andante  of 
the  Marsellaise.  The  French  hymn  of  liberty,  whose  sombre 
and  fiery  tonal  morning  burst  once  on  the  birth-throes  of 
Democracy,  like  the  light  of  God  upon  the  chaos  of  the  globe  1 
He  never  heard  it  without  emotion,  and  now  it  rushed  into  his 
soul,  dilating  and  expanding  into  vast  orchestral  harmonies. 
His  eye  gleamed  and  bright  color  lit  his  face  as  he  listened  to 
the  triumphal  terror  and  glory  of  the  thrilling  strain.  On  and 
on  it  swept  in  cadences  of  tears  and  fire  ;  down  and  down  it 
darkened  in  weird  and  burning  melody,  fraught  with  the  pas 
sion  of  all  human  wrongs  ;  and  rising  into  the  pealing  cry  of 
the  battle-summons,  and  flowing  into  the  proud,  heroic  tones 
of  mournful  rapture  which  seem  to  exult  for  the  dead  who  die 
for  man,  it  melted  away. 


HARRINGTON.  177 

Harrington  sat,  flushed  and  throbbing,  in  ,  the  fragrant 
silence  of  the  room.  The  organ  had  ceased  and  gone,  and  he 
was  alone.  Gradually  the  tumult  of  his  spirit  sank  into  golden 
calm,  and  with  the  charm  of  the  music  still  lingering  in  his 
mind,  he  put  the  faded  herbs  into  the  drawer,  and  prepared  to 
begin  his  tasks. 

His  unfinished  article  was  the  first  thing  to  be  attended  to, 
and  he  got  it  out  and  set  to  work  upon  it.  The  article,  as 
Muriel  had  said,  he  was  writing  for  money,  for  Harrington's 
means  sometimes  ran  low.  His  mother  dying  six  years  before, 
when  he  was  nineteen,  had  left  him  her  little  property,  includ 
ing  this  house.  The  house  he  rented  to  Captain  Fisher,  and 
this  rent,  added  to  the  interest  of  the  money  his  mother  had 
left  him,  gave  him  a  yearly  income  of  about  six  hundred  dollars. 
An  economical  and  selfish  man  might  have  got  on  well  enough 
on  these  receipts  ;  but  Harrington,  though  economical  enough, 
was  anything  but  selfish,  and  between  his  own  expenses  and 
his  pecuniary  outlay  for  others,  he  sometimes  found  himself  in 
want  of  money.  On  these  occasions  he  was  wont  to  interrupt 
his  studies  to  write  for  certain  periodicals  till  he  wrote  himself 
into  funds  again.  What  he  wrote  sold  well,  and  his  pen  was 
in  demand  ;  but  philosophy,  Hegel  said,  has  nothing  to  do 
with  dollars,  and  Harrington  evidently  thought  scholarship 
had  not  either,  for  when  he  had  once  filled  the  gap  in  his 
finances,  back  he  went  to  his  studies,  and  the  magazine  editor 
did  not  live  who  could  tempt  him  from  them  into  another 
contribution. 

For  he  was  a  scholar  born,  and  in  this  room  he  kept  alive 
the  traditions  which  have  made  the  name  of  Harrington  dear 
to  scholarship  and  man.  It  is  a  shining  name  in  literature 
and  history,  and  bears  the  recorded  honors  due  to  names  linked 
with  the  memory  of  human  pleasure  or  the  cause  of  human 
service.  There  was  one  Harrington  in  the  days  of  the  Eighth 
Henry — a  polished  poet,  who  surpassed  the  verse  of  his  time. 
There  was  another,  his  child,  the  darling  of  Queen  Elizabeth, 
a  sprightly  wit  and  poet,  who  sunned  his  muse  in  the  bright 
ness  of  the  bright  Britannic  days,  wrought  well  for  belle-lettres 
and  history,  and  gave  his  country  her  first  English  version  of 

8* 


178  HARRINGTON. 

the  fun  and.  fire  of  Ariosto.  There  was  still  another,  the 
Oxford  scholar  of  a  later  age,  of  whom  the  chronicle  records 
that  he  was  a  prodigy  in  the  common  law,  a  person  of  excellent 
parts,  honest  in  dealing,  and  of  good  and  generous  nature. 
There  was  one  more,  loftier  far  than  these,  whose  mighty 
pulses  beat  for  liberty  and  justice,  the  brave  Utopian  of  Sid 
ney's  time,  who  aimed  to  lay  the  deep  foundations  of  the  perfect 
and  immortal  state — James  Harrington,  the  author  of  Oceana. 
And  among  the  rest,  skilled  or  famed  in  law  and  science  and 
poetry,  there  was  yet  another,  James  Harrington's  true 
brother  by  a  closer  tie  than  that  of  blood — the  stout  jurist 
of  Vermont,  who  spoke  the  decision  of  her  Supreme  Court 
on  the  demand  of  a  slave  claimant,  decreeing  that  his  title 
to  a  man  was  not  good  till  he  could  show  a  bill  of  sale 
from  the  Almighty  God.  That  was  Judge  Harrington,  and 
by  that  decree  he  earned  his  right  to  a  statue  from  mankind. 

Whatever  was  best  and  greatest  in  the  works  and  days  of 
the  ancestral  Harringtons,  seemed  likely  to  be  renewed  and 
excelled  by  the  young  scholar  who  bore  their  name.  Prima 
rily,  he  was  a  Baconist.  There  stood  the  bust  of  Bacon  on 
the  pedestal  in  his  library,  and  to  him  it  was  the  treasure  of 
treasures.  Wentworth  used  to  say  jestingly,  that  Harrington 
was  a  heathen  and  worshipped  an  idol.  For  the  idol,  however, 
Wentworth  himself,  with  Muriel,  was  responsible.  Harring 
ton  had  been  sadly  disappointed  in  not  being  able  to  find  any 
bust  of  Verulam  at  the  statuary's  ;  so  Wentworth  and  Muriel 
had  collected  the  various  portraits  of  the  great  Chancellor, 
moulded  from  them  a  bust  in  clay,  somewhat  larger  than  life, 
cast  it  in  plaster,  and  one  day  Harrington,  entering  his  study, 
was  astonished  and  enraptured  at  finding  the  bust  there  on  its 
pedestal.  It  was  a  magnificent  success,  and  well  embodied 
the  noble  sagacity,  the  tender  and  gentle  sweetness,  the  regal 
compassion  and  calm,  massive  intellectuality,  which  appear  in 
Bacon's  enormous  brow  and  face  of  princely  majesty,  as  the 
painters  of  his  time  have  pictured  him. 

Harrington  now  loved  Bacon  with  tenfold  ardor,  and  Har 
rington's  love  for  Bacon  was  something  wonderful.  It  was 
absolutely  a  personal  attachment,  and  there  was  no  surer 


HAEEINGTON.  179 

way  to  rouse  him  than  to  speak  disparagingly  of  Verulam. 
He  put  him  above  all  authors  or  men.  He  spoke  of  him  as 
the  flower  of  the  human  race.  He  resented  any  imputation 
on  his  fame,  scouted  at  the  modern  aspersions  upon  him  of 
Lord  Campbell,  Macaulay  and  others,  as  baseless  and  infam 
ous  slanders,  and  altered  Pope's  epigrammatic  line,  which  he 
thought  the  seed-cone  of  the  whole  modern  libel,  to  read  "  the 
wisest,  brightest,  noblest  of  mankind."  With  a  standing 
promise  to  his  friends  to  put  the  evidence  together  some  day 
in  demonstrable  form,  having  already,  he  said,  begun  to  make 
notes  to  that  end,  he  meanwhile  rested  in  the  broad  assertion 
that  Bacon's  downfall  was  the  work  of  the  conservatism  of 
his  time — that  the  conservators  of  social  abuses  had  smelt  out 
his  concealed  democracy  and  socialism,  trumped  up  the  charge 
of  malfeasance  in  office  against  him,  ruined  and  defamed  him 
in  his  life  and  flung  the  mire  of  a  traditionary  calumny  on  his 
tomb.  It  was  another  of  Harrington's  heresies  that  Bacon 
in  the  seventeenth  century  aimed  to  do  for  the  world  what  Fou 
rier  aimed  to  do  in  the  nineteenth.  This,  he  insisted,  was  the 
key  to  his  works  and  life — this  the  torch  by  which  they  were  to 
be  read  and  interpreted.  It  was  evident  that  Harrington  had 
a  very  pretty  affair  on  his  hands,  should  he  ever  venture  to 
publish  an  idea  so  heretical.  The  sin  of  connecting  the  world- 
honored  Yerulam  with  the  man  whom  modern  society  has  en 
dowed,  as  Muriel  said,  with  hoofs  and  horns  and  a  harpoon- 
tail,  and  of  asserting  that  either  or  both  had  m.  ant  to  bring 
the  kingdom  of  God  upon  the  earth,  would  be  only  less  than 
the  effort  of  both  or  either  to  so  interfere  with  our  highly  re 
spectable  institutions. 

However  this  may  be,  Harrington's  heart  was  anchored  on 
the  idea,  and  with  this  faith  in  him,  he  studied  his  Bacon,  to 
gether  with  Montaigne  and  Shakspeare,  who,  he  thought,  or 
seemed  to  think — for  on  this  point  he  was  mysteriously  non 
committal — were  in  the  interest  of  the  Baconian  design.  Pos 
sibly,  he  might  yet  come  to  different  conclusions,  for  he  was 
young;  and,  like  Sterne's  Pilgrim,  had  just  begun  his  journey, 
and  had  much  to  learn. 
.  Meanwhile  he  pursued  his  studies,  though  with  the  full  con- 


180  HAEEINGTON. 

ciousness  that  there  was  no  accredited  career  open  to  him.  To 
a  man  who  held  unpopular  convictions  as  he  did;  no  more  a 
Christian  of  the  modern  sort  than  Christ  was;  no  more  a  pa 
triot  of  the  modern  sort  than  Sidney  was;  no  more  a  believer 
in  the  modern  order  of  society  than  Bacon  and  Fourier  were  ; 
despising  the  Government  as  an  engine  of  force  and  fraud; 
refusing  assent  to  the  Constitution,  and  allegiance  to  the  Union, 
because  in  his  view  they  legalized  and  fortified  the  crime  and 
ruin  of  Slavery — to  such  a  man  the  church,  the  bar,  the  bench, the 
senate,  the  official  station  of  any  kind  were  all  closed.  But  Har 
rington  had  a  solemn  instinct  at  his  heart,  that  the  time  was  com 
ing  when  his  country  would  rise  against  slavery  and  social  wrong 
and  call  upon  her  outlawed  sons  for  their  best  service. 
Against  that  day  he  prepared  himself  to  do  his  part,  what 
ever  it  might  prove  to  be.  In  his  conception  of  it,  the  utter 
annihilation  of  slavery  was  first  in  the  programme.  This  in 
volved  the  possibility  of  civil  war.  It  might  come  between 
the  dark  millions  of  the  South  and  the  Government.  It 
might  come  between  the  Government's  pro-slavery  liegemen 
and  the  freemen  of  the  North.  In  either  case,  Harrington 
was  pledged  to  serve  liberty,  and  that  his  service  might  be  effi 
cient,  he  had  begun  the  study  of  military  science,  and  had  the  best 
text  books,  such  as  those  of  Mahan,  Kinsley,  Thiroux  and 
Knowlton,  together  with  the  chief  standard  works  relating  to 
warfare,  from  the  Commentaries  of  Caesar  to  the  volumes  of 
Durat-Lasalle  To  this  end  also  went  his  varied  practice  with 
Bagasse  in  the  school  of  arms,  with  rifle  practice  elsewhere. 
Hoping,  too,  that  the  period  of  social  reconstruction  would  come 
in  his  own  time  or  follow  hard  upon  it,  he  was  preparing  to  add 
his  thought  to  bring  it  on,  or  shape  his  thought  to  guide  it 
when  it  should  come,  and  to  this  end  were  his  scholas 
tic  labors.  His  shelves  might  have  hinted  as  much.  There 
were  the  works  of  the  masters  of  law  and  government,  and 
of  those  who  have  studied  and  schemed  for  society,  Plato, 
Aristotle,  Pythagoras,  Cicero,  Justinian,  Grotius,  Burla- 
maqui,  Vattel,  Puffendorif,  Heneicius,  Milton,  Sidney,  Har 
rington,  Pothier,  Montaigne,  Machiavelli,  Bacon,  Montesquieu, 
*5entham,  Burke,  St.  Simon,  Fourier,  Compte — legists,  jurists, 


HARRINGTON.  181 

scholiasts,  works  of  practice  and  theory,  statements  of  cod  es, 
and  books  that  are  the  seed  of  codes.  With  them  works  of  ex 
act  science  in  all  its  branches,  and  works  of  history,  biography, 
poetry,  travel  and  fiction,  classic  and  modern — for  it  was  Har 
rington's  design  to  grasp  the  thought  and  life  of  all  the  ages. 
So  toiled  he.  No  dilettante  litterateur  ;  no  student  forget 
ful  of  his  time  and  kind,  or  gaining  lore  to  fortify  or  gild 
oppression  ; — but  kinsman  to  the  golden  blood  of  the  gallant 
scholars  to  whose  graves  the  heart  brings  its  laurels  and 
its  tears.  No  scholar,  either  of  the  modern  sort,  which 
stores  the  brain  and  saps  the  arm — but  of  the  large  Eliza 
bethan  type,  training  his  body  in  every  manly  exercise, 
training  his  mind  in  equal  skill  and  power.  Such  was  the 
budding  promise  of  Harrington. 


CHAPTER    X. 

CONVERSATION. 

IN  the  young  man's  kindled  mood,  composition  was  easy, 
and  by  two  o'clock  his  article  was  done. 

He  was  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  enjoying  the  consciousness 
of  eighty  dollars  earned,  when  the  door  opened,  and  in  came 
the  Captain,  with  his  head  very  much  on  one  side,  and  an 
ominous  gravity  on  his  quaint  features.  He  did  not  remove 
his  straw-hat,  but  stood  surveying  Harrington  with  a  critical 
eye,  like  a  marine  raven.  A  slow  smile  twinkled  around  the 
young  man's  bearded  mouth,  for  he  instantly  divined  what  the 
Captain  had  come  for. 

"  Well,  Eldad,"  he  said,  "  it's  the  rent,  I  know.  I  see  rent 
written  in  every  lineament  of  your  ingenuous  countenance. 
Come,  sit  down." 

The  Captain  slowly  lifted  his  clenched  fist  and  shook  it  at 
Harrington,  then  lounged  about,  seated  himself  on  the  sofa 
under  the  windows,  and  cocked  up  his  eye  at  the  trap  in  the 
ceiling. 


182  HARRINGTON. 

"  Could  I  smoke,  John  ?"  he  asked,  suddenly  dropping  his 
glance  at  the  young  man. 

"  Certainly.     Light  up,  and  smoke  away." 

Keeping  his  head  on  one  side,  and  his  round,  bright  eyes 
intent  on  the  smiling  Harrington,  the  Captain  produced  a  short 
pipe  and  a  match  from  the  hollow  of  his  left  hand,  and  putting 
the  pipe  in  one  corner  of  his  mouth,  lit  the  match  on  his 
sleeve,  and  igniting  the  tobacco,  began  to  blow  a  cloud. 

"  And  why  didn't  you  come  to  dinner  ?"  he  blandly  de 
manded,  opening  the  war. 

"  Dinner !  I  declare  I  never  thought  of  it  till  this 
minute,"  exclaimed  Harrington,  coloring  a  little. 

"  It  was  a  brile  to-day,  John,"  pursued  the  Captain,  contem 
platively,  smoking.  "  Briled  steak,  potatoes,  spinach,  with  a 
top  off  of  bread  '  uddin'  and  coffee,"  he  continued,  pensively 
enumerating  the  components  of  the  meal.  "  Together  with 
bread  and  butter,  and  apple-sarce.  Joel  James  eat  till  he 
thought  his  jacket  was  buttoned.  Hannah  says,  '  I  wonder 
where  John  is  ?'  Sophrony  answers,  '  he's  in  his  room,  for  I 
see  him  go  in  at  eleven  o'clock.'  '  Better  call  him,'  says  John 
H.  '  Better  not,7  says  I,  '  or  you'll  scatter  some  of  his  idees.' 
So  we  didn't." 

Harrington  listened  attentively  to  this  account  of  the  family 
colloquy  on  his  absence  from  the  dinner-table.  Joel  James 
was  the  Captain's  son,  a  sturdy  schoolboy  of  ten.  Sophronia 
was  his  daughter,  a  girl  of  fifteen.  John  H.  was  the 
youngest  son,  named  after  Harrington.  Hannah  was  the 
Captain's  wife. 

"  John,"  said  the  Captain,  changing  the  subject,  "  two 
hundred  and  fifty's  not  enough.  I'm  goin'  to  raise  it  to  three 
hundred." 

"  Good  !"  exclaimed  Harrington,  with  a  jovial  air.  "  I 
knew  it  was  the  rent  !  Eldad,  this  rent  is  our  standing 
grievance.  Well,  I'm  going  to  lower  it  to  two  hundred." 

"  In  which  event,  I'm  going  to  move,  bag  and  baggage," 
retorted  the  Captain. 

Harrington  laughed  aloud,  and  sat  smiling  at  the  Captain, 
whose  quaint  features  were  screwed  into  a  grin,  and  momently 


HARRINGTON.  183 

lit  in  little  flashes  of  red  from  the  bowl  of  the  pipe  near  his 
cheek. 

"  Eldad,"  replied  Harrington,  "  if  I  had  my  way,  you 
should  have  the  house  rent  free." 

"  Which  I  wunt,"  said  the  Captain.  • 

"  Of  course  you  won't,"  continued  Harrington ;  "  but, 
Eldad,  you  were  mother's  mainstay,  and  have  been  like  a 
father  to  me  since  she  died,  and  it  grates  on  my  feelings  to 
have  you  paying  me  money.  Well,  no  matter.  Let  it  go. 
But  I'll  be  even  with  you  one  of  these  days." 

"  Well,"  returned  the  Captain,  "  it's  settled  then  ?"     . 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

"  Three  hundred,  you  say." 

"  O  no,  Eldad.     Two  fifty. 

"  Three  hundred." 

"  Two  fifty." 

"  Three  hundred  dollars." 

"  Two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  Eldad.  Not  another 
stiver.  I'm  resolved  now." 

The  Captain  sighed,  and  smoked  pensively. 

"  I  lost  a  customer  to-day,  John,"  he  remarked,  after  a  long 
pause. 

"  Indeed  I  Which  induced  you  to  increase  your  expenses, 
by  raising  the  rent,"  bantered  Harrington. 

"  Collected  for  him  these  six  years  back,"  continued  the 
Captain,  pensively.  "  Lem  Atkins,  you  know." 

"  Lemuel  Atkins  !"  exclaimed  Harrington,  leaning  forward. 
"  Why  that's  Mrs.  Eastman's  brother." 

"  Certain.  Cotton  merchant  on  Long  Wharf,  and  a  black 
sheep  he  is  too.  Webster  Whig — pro-slavery  up  to  the  hub— 
reg'lar  aristocrat  every  way.  He  was  one  of  the  Fifteen 
Hundred  Scoundrels,  as  Phillips  called  'em.  Ruther  guess  all 
the  bad  that  ever  was  in  his  sister  and  niece  was  drawn  off 
before  they  were  born,  and  bottled  up  in  him." 

"  And  how  came  you  to  lose  him  ?"  interrogated  Harring 
ton. 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  replied  the  Captain.  "  You  see,  I've 
collected  the  rents  of  eight  of  his  houses  for  six  years  back — • 


184:  HARRINGTON. 

some  of  'em  went  ruther  aginst  my  grain,  too.  Poor  houses, 
scacely  fit  for  human  bein's  to  live  in,  two  or  three  of  Jem,  and 
sech  as  no  decent  man  would  own  or  let  out  to  anybody. 
Howiver.  Hefgave  me  the  memorandums  of  three  more  about 
a  week  a'fo.  Mighty  big  rents  Atkins  gits  for  these  dwellings, 
thinks  I  to  myself,  as  I  entered  them  on  my  book.  Spoon  o' 
horn  !  I  niver  guessed  it  till  I  went  down  there  yesterday,  au> 
found  out  what  sort  of  houses  them  are  for  which  Atkins  gits 
his  big  rents." 

"That's  fine  in  Atkins,"  remarked  Harrington.  "Always 
talking  about  the  duty  of  citizens  to  obey  the  laws,  right  or 
wrong,  and  here  he  violates  the  statute  against  letting  houses 
for  such  purposes.  But  perhaps  he  didn't  know  who  his  tenants 
were." 

"  He  know  ?  Lord  I  he  knew  fast  enough,"  replied  the 
Captain.  "  Laws  ?  All  the  laws  he  obeys  are  the  laws  that 
go  for  hits  money.  There's  lots  like  him.  They  go  for  every 
money  law,  from  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law  upward,  for  I  ruther 
guess  there  ain't  no  downward  from  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law. 
Why,  there's  a  Massachusetts  law  aginst  over  usury.  Who 
don't  keep  it  ?  Who  lets  out  money  for  ten  per  cent., 
twenty  per  cent.,  any  per  cent,  they  can  git  ?  Them  very  sort 
o'  men  that's  always  blatherin'  about  obedience  to  the  laws, 
right  or  wrong.  Ony  when  a  man's  libaty's  consarned,  and 
the  law  goes  for  takin'  it  away  from  him,  then  they're  awfully 
law-abidin'  citizens.  By  the  great  horn  spoon  1  I'd  just  like  to 
have  the  stringin'  up  of  them  law-abiders  with  a  copy  of  the 
Revised  Statutes  round  their  necks  1" 

Harrington  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  with  his  hands  clasped, 
and  his  brow  knitted. 

"  Well,  as  I  was  sayin',"  resumed  the  Captain,  "  I  went  into 
one  of  them  houses.  '  Young  women,'  says  I,  leavin',  '  you'd 
better  repent,  for  the  kingdom  of  heaven's  at  hand.7  I  tell  you 
I  was  mad  when  I  found  a  similar  state  o'  things  in  the  tother 
two,  and  I  just  bounced  out,  and  went  right  down  to  Lem 
Atkins.  '  Mr.  Atkins,'  says  I,  '  you'd  better  employ  your 
former  agent  for  them  houses.'  '  What's  the  matter,  Fisher,' 
says  he.  '  Matter  is/  says  I,  *  that  I  guess  you  don't  know 


HAKKINGTON. 


185 


what  sort  o'  callin'  's  followed  in  them  tenements.'  '  It's  not 
my  business,  Mr.  Fisher/  says  he,  '  to  busy  myself  with  the 
occupation  of  my  tenants.  How  dare  you  speak  to  me  in  that 
manner.'  I  looked  him  right  in  the  eye.  He  swelled  up  like 
a  turkey-cock,  but  he  didn't  look  at  me  a  second.  '  Mr. 
Atkins,'  says  I,  l  no  offince,  but  as  I've  got  sons  and  a  daughter, 
the  occupation  of  your  tenants  is  a  consarn  o'  mine,  and  you 
must  get  another  man  to  collect  them  rents,  for  I  wunt  do  it, 
an'  I  pity  the  man  that  will.'  He  turned  off  to  his  desk. 
'  Mr.  Fisher,'  says  he,  '  you  wunt  do  any  more  collectin'  for  me, 
so  just  send  up  your  accounts,  and  we'll  be  quits.'  '  Yery  well/ 
says  I,  and  I  left  with  his  collectin'  off  my  hands  for  good." 

"  Bravo,  Eldad  !  That  was  done  like  a  man  !"  cried  Har 
rington. 

"If  it  wasn't  for  bringin'  disgrace  on  his  sister  and  that 
splendid  daughter  of  hers,"  said  the  Captain,  rising,  with  his 
pipe  in  his  clenched  hand,  "  I'd  just  let  the  thing  be  known 
around  town,  I  would.  Say,  John,  she's  a  beauty,  though, 
ain't  she  ?  John,  she's  the  ony  lady  I  know  that's  good  enough 
for  you." 

Harrington  colored  deeply,  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  Well,  the  other  one's  splendid,  too,"  said  the  Captain,  as  if 
in  answer  to  a  private  thought  of  the  young  man,  scrutinizing 
his  countenance  meanwhile,  with  his  own  head  all  awry. 
"  Yes,  she's  a  regular  clipper.  I  never  was  so  took  aback  by 
any  human  action  as  by  that  offer  to  buy  Roux's  brother. 
That  was  ginerosity  such  as  we  read  of — ony  it's  a  pity  she 
didn't  know  the  harm  she  was  doin'.  Yes,  she's  a  glory,  and 
that's  a  fact.  Still,  I  wish  it  was  tother  one." 

"  Why,  Eldad,"  said  Harrington,  laughing  and  fiery  red, 
"  you're  all  at  sea.  Surely  you  don't  think  I'm  in  love  with 
Miss  Ames  ?" 

The  Captain  looked  hard  at  him. 

"  Well,  so  I've  ben  told,  John,"  he  replied. 

Harrington  puckered  up  his  mouth  in  wonder. 

"  Bless  me,  how  people  will  talk  1"  he  exclaimed.  "  Why 
there's  not  a  word  of  truth  in  it.  Of  course  I  like  Emily  very 
much  " 


186  HARRINGTON. 

"  And  she  you/7  interposed  the  Captain. 

"  And  she  me  ?  I  declare !  I  shall  hear  next  that  she  is  in 
love  with  me,  I  suppose  1"  exclaimed  Harrington. 

"  Well,  so  I've  ben  told,"  coolly  responded  the  Captain  ; 
"  dead  in  love  with  you." 

Harrington  stared  at  him,  but  the  color  ebbed  away  from 
his  countenance,  and  a  flood  of  dreadful  confirmations  over- 
swept  him.  Her  recent  sudden  preference  for  his  society,  her 
lavish  attentions  to  him,  the  fervent  and  sumptuous  fondness 
of  her  manner,  rushed  in  new  light  upon  his  consciousness. 
Purblind  fool  that  I  am,  he  thought  ;  I  mistook  it  all  for 
friendship,  and  it  meant  love  !  For  a  moment,  poor  Harring 
ton  felt  as  guilty  as  though  he  had  known  and  encouraged 
Emily's  passion  for  him.  But  no,  he  thought,  this  is  all  a  mis 
take  ;  it  cannot  be. 

"  Eld  ad,"  said  he,  "  this  is  rather  a  serious  matter  ;  more 
serious  than  you  may  imagine.  Come,  now,  be  frank  with  me. 
You  say  you've  been  told  Miss  Ames  is  in  love  with  me.  Now 
who  told  you  !" 

The  Captain,  with  his  head  all  atwist,  scanned  him  curiously, 
slowly  rubbing  his  chin,  meanwhile,  with  the  palm  of  his  brown 
hand. 

"  Well,  John,"  he  answered,  slowly,  "  I  was  asked  not  to 
mention  it.  Howiver,  I  guess  I  will.  That  young  Witherlee 
told  me." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Harrington. 

"  Yis,  John,"  continued  the  Captain.  '*  I  come  in  here  one 
day  about  a  week  ago,  I  guess,  an'  found  him  sittin'  in  your 
chair,  smokin'  his  cigar.  He  said  he  was  waitin'  for  you,  an' 
we  had  a  chat.  In  the  course  of  the  conversation,  he  let  that 
out.  I  ruther  thought  he  was  tryin'  to  pump  somethin'  out  of 
me  on  that  subject,  but  I  didn't  know  nothin',  an'  if  I  did,  he 
wouldn't  have  been  the  wiser,  I  guess." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?"  asked  Harrington. 

"  Well,  not  overmuch,"  replied  the  Captain.  "  Seemed  to 
know  all  about  it,  howiver.  Talked  as  if  he  was  in  your  con 
fidence.  Asked  when  you  were  goin'  to  be  married.  Well, 
now,  he  didn't  exactly  say  it,  you  know,  but  he  somehow  gave 


HARRINGTON.  1ST 

me  to  understand  that  you  were  in  love  with  Miss  Ames,  an' 
she  likewise  with  you  ;  an'  thought  her  family  wouldn't  make 
no  objections.  That  was  about  all." 

Harrington,  with  a  look  of  pain,  reddened  while  the  Captain 
was  speaking,  and  his  nostrils  quivered. 

"I  am  shocked  and  grieved  that  Witherlee  should  talk  in 
this  way,"  he  said,  sadly.  "  I  shall  certainly  call  him  to  ac 
count  for  this." 

"John,  you  musn't  mention  it,"  said  the  Captain,  anxiously. 
"  He  said  he  thought  I  knew  all  about  it,  or  he  wouldn't  have 
alluded  to  it,  and  he  made  me  promise  not  to  speak  of  it.  It 
won't  do,  John.  Fact  is,  I  oughtn't  to  have  said  a  word." 

Harrington  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  table,  and  for  a  moment 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  He  had  a  clear  glimpse  into  the 
method  of  the  good  Fernando. 

"  Very  well,  Eldad,"  he  said,  calmly,  leaning  back  in  his 
chair.  "  Let  it  go,  I  won't  speak  of  it.  But  I  assure  you 
there's  not  a  word  of  truth  in  this  statement,  so  far  as 
I'm  concerned,  and  I  hope  there  is  not  in  regard  to  Miss 
Ames  !" 

The  Captain  did  not  answer,  but  lounged  away,  and  during 
the  long  silence  that  followed,  walked  up  and  down  with  a 
ruminating  air.  At  length  he  stopped  and  fronted  ;the  young 
man,  who 'was  absorbed  in  musing. 

"John/'  said  he,  "to-day's  the  day,  you  know." 

Harrington,  knowing  what  he  meant,  bent  his  head,  looking 
with  half-absent  sadness  into  vacancy. 

"  Twelve  years  ago  to-day,  John,  the  good  ship  Conto- 
cook  went  down,"  continued  the  Captain,  in  a  hushed  voice, 
with  a  half-soliloquizing  air.  "  All  the  women  an'  children 
saved.  That  was  a  comfort,  John." 

Harrington  again  bowed  his  head  silently.  Every  year,  on 
the  twenty-fifth  of  May,  he  was  accustomed  to  hear  the  Cap 
tain  speak  of  this. 

"And  all  the  men  saved,  John,"  continued  the  Captain. 
"  That  was  another  comfort.  All  but  one,  John." 

The  Captain  paused,  solemnly,  and  took  off  his  hat. 

"  As  good  a  seaman  as  ever  trod  the  deck,"  he  resumed. 


J88  HAJSKINGTON. 

"  As  fine  a  man  as  ever  breathed  the  breath  of  life.  Captain 
John  Harrington,  aged  forty-two.  Blessed  are  the  dead  who 
die  in  the  Lord  1" 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"  And  he  died  in  the  Lord,  John,  continued  the  Captain." 
I  don't  know  as  he  ever  got  religion.  But  he  died  in  the 
Lord." 

The  Captain  paused  once  more,  muttering  the  last  words 
below  his  breath. 

"  Yes,  John,"  he  continued,  "that's  the  way  he  died.  I've 
been  thinkin'  of  it  all  day.  It's  been  comin'  to  me  how  that 
rollin'  iceberg  tumbled  through  the  thick  fog,  in  the  dead  of 
night,  and  struck  the  ship,  and  stove  in  her  bows.  '  Back 
from  the  boats,'  he  shouts,  catchin'  up  the  hand-spike.  *  The 
first  man  that  touches  a  boat  I'll  brain.  Women  and  children 
first,  men.'  '  That's  the  talk,'  sings  out  some  of  the  sailors, 
an'  them  that  was  goin'  to  take  the  boats  fell  away.  '  Now, 
then,  the  women  and  children,'  says  he.  Over  the  side  they 
went,  one  by  one  ;  he  standin7  by  with  the  handspike.  *  Now 
the  other  passengers,'  says  he.  Over  they  went  too.  '  Now, 
men,'  he  says,  '  there's  room  in  that  boat  for  some  of  ye,  and 
the  rest  of  us  '11  go  into  the  other.  Over  they  went,  likewise, 
till  only  he  and  the  black  cook  was  left.  '  The  boat's  full, 
captain,'  says  John  Timbs,  the  first  mate,  '  but  I  guess 
she'll  hold  another.'  'Jump  in  doctor,'  says  Captain  Har 
rington  to  the  darkey.  '  No,'  they  hollered,  '  white  men 
before  niggers,  captain,  and  we'll  have  you.'  'I'll  stay, 
captain,'  blubbers  cook,  '  No  you  won't,'  says  he.  '  Men/ 
he  says,  '  it's  a  favor  I  ask.  Don't  deny  me,  or  you'll  never 
know  peace.  In  with  you,  doctor,'  an'  he  slung  the  cook  over 
the  side.  'Try  now,  captain,'  says  they,  all  beseechiri' 
together.  An'  he  let  himself  down  by  the  rope  till  he  stood 
in  the  boat,  an'  the  sea  begun  to  come  over  the  gunnels.  He 
was  up  into  the  ship  again  in  a  minute.  '  It's  no  use,  men/ 
says  he,  '  push  off.  Timbs/  says  he,  *  give  my  love  to  my  wife 
and  boy,  jf  I  never  see  'em  again.  God  bless  ye,  men.'  And 
then  the  ship  lurched  for'ard,  an'  they  pushed  off,  cryin'  like 
babes.  Last  thing  they  saw  through  the  fog  was  the  captain 


HARRINGTON.  189 

flingin'  a  hatch  overboard,  and  jumpin'  after  it.  But  that  sea 
was  too  cold  for  a  man  to  be  in  long.  Then  when  they  lost 
sight  of  him,  they  heard  the  wallow,  an'  saw  the  lazy  swells 
lift  up  round  the  boat,  an'  knew  that  the  ship  had  gone 
down." 

The  Captain  paused,  wiping  away  with  his  sleeve  the  salt 
tears  which  the  simple  epic  of  a  brave  man's  death  brought  to 
his  eyes. 

"  That  was  the  story,  and  them  was  the  last  words  Timbs 
brought  home  to  your  mother,  John,"  he  continued.  "  An' 
that's  the  way  he  died.  Women  and  children  saved.  That's 
a  comfort.  An'  all  the  men  saved,  includin'  the  poor  old 
moke  of  a  doctor.  That's  another  comfort.  But  he  died. 
An',  somehow,  I  kinder  feel  that's  a  comfort  too,  John.  For 
he  died  in  the  Lord." 

The  light  lay  softly  on  the  pale  and  kindled  features  of 
Harrington,  and  the  fragrance  of  the  garden  floated  through 
his  brain  like  incense. 

"  It  was  a  manly  way  to  leave  the  world,"  he  said.  "Life 
is  sweet  to  me  with  the  memory  of  such  a  father." 

"  You  think  of  him  often,  John,"  murmured  the  Captain. 

"  Often,  Bldad,  often.  Never  as  one  dead.  Always  as  one 
alive  and  well." 

The  Captain  moved  his  head  up  and  down,  two  or  three 
times,  in  token  of  assent,  and  moved  away  to  the  door. 

"  Well,  good  bye,  John,"  he  said,  suddenly. 

"  Good  bye,  Eldad,"  returned  the  young  man,  rising  and 
following  him  to  the  door. 

The  Captain  departed,  and  Harrington,  closing  the  door 
after  him,  folded  his  arms,  and  began  to  pace  to  and  fro  in 
deep  musing.  The  sweet  and  solemn  feeling  which  the  anni 
versary  of  his  father's  death  brought  him,  gradually  melted 
away  in  feelings  of  sadness  and  pain,  as  the  torturing  thought 
came  into  his  mind,  that  in  his  free  and  frank  friendship  for 
Emily  he  might  have  won  her  to  love  him.  The  more  he 
reflected  upon  it,  the  more  terrible  grew  the  confirmations. 
His  conviction  of  a  fortnight  before,  that  she  and  Wentworth 
were  lovers — how  could  he  have  been  so  deceived  I 


190  HARRINGTON. 

The  spell  of  the  magic  moment  that  had  filled  his  soul 
with  morning,  was  disenchanted  now,  and  darkness  gathered 
upon  him.  Darkness  that  was  not  without  light,  for  he  again 
believed  that  Wentworth  and  Muriel  loved  each  other,  and  he 
felt  a  sorrowful  and  generous  gladness  in  their  happiness.  His 
heart  yearned  to  Wentworth — yearned  to  make  him  rejoice 
with  the  assurance  that  he  was  not  his  rival — yearned  to  them 
both  in  love  and  blessing. 

He  paused  in  his  walk,  as  through  his  joy  for  them  struck 
the  sharp  pain  of  the  consciousness  that  the  costly  treasure  of 
her  love  was  not  for  him. 

"  Heart  of  my  heart,  soul  of  my  soul,"  he  murmured  fer 
vently,  "  I  love  you,  though  I  lose  you.  All  that  is  divine 
and  human  is  dearer  and  lovelier  to  me  because  I  love  you, 
though  you  are  lost  to  me.  Lost,  lost  to  me  forever." 

His  head  sunk  upon  his  breast,  and  his  eyes  closed.  The 
lilac  fragrance  floated  in  and  reeled  in  a  warm  gust  upon  his 
throbbing  brain.  Some  silent  spirit  seemed  near  him  in  the 
sunlit  room,  and  strange  comfort  stole  upon  him  like  the  bliss 
of  a  dream. 

"  Farewell,  Muriel,"  he  murmured,  his  blue  eyes  unclosing, 
dimmed  with  a  mist  of  tears,  "  farewell,  farewell.  It  is  one 
hope  the  less,  and  life  calls  me  still." 

He  sunk  into  his  chair,  and  striving  to  banish  her  image 
from  his  mind,  began  to  think  how  he  should  deal  with  Emily. 
In  a  little  while  he  resolved  that,  however  difficult  and  delicate 
to  do,  he  must  frankly  tell  her  of  what  he  had  heard,  and  let 
her  know  his  true  relation  to  her. 

His  conclusion  made,  he  still  sat  musing,  his  spirit  clouded 
with  sadness  and  anxiety.  Suddenly  he  heard  the  gate  fly 
open  and  slam  to,  and  a  fi^yn  tread  rush  over  the  planked 
walk,  then  the  door  opening,  in  darted  Wentworth,  flushed, 
electric,  panting,  furious  with  rage. 


HARRINGTON. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

N  ORTH    AND    SOUTH  . 

THE  family  of  the  Mr.  Lemuel  Atkins,  of  whom  the  Captain 
had  spoken,  belonged  to  what  is  called  Good  Society  ;  but  let 
no  one  suppose  that  they  constituted  a  specimen  of  the  Boston 
aristocracy,  with  its  men,  too  often,  indeed,  cold  and  careless 
in  the  interests  of  mankind,  yet  always  polished  gentlemen  in 
instinct  and  education,  and  with  its  women,  cultured  and 
noble,  patrician  from  brow  to  foot,  and  many,  very  many  of 
them,  angels  of  compassion  and  succor  to  the  weak  and  poor. 
The  Atkinses  were  only  of  a  large  and  dominant  moneyed  class^ 
vulgar  mushrooms — no,  toadstools — who  spring  up  thickly 
in  the  aristocratic  quarter  and  call  themselves  Good  Society. 

These  fine  people  were  expecting  a  guest  to  dinner  that  after 
noon,  who  would  have  been  a  skeleton  at  any  possible  banquet 
of  Harrington's,  could  he  have  known  that  such  a  guest  was 
in  town.  Mr.  Atkins's  usual  dinner  hour  was  two  o'clock, 
but  on  this  occasion  it  had  been  postponed  to  four,  while  the 
merchant  was  showing  the  guest  a  few  of  the  lions. 

It  was  within  an  hour  of  the  dinner-time,  and  the  servants 
in  the  kitchen  were  sweltering  over  the  preparation  of  the 
meal  in  the  hottest  possible  hurry,  and  the  greatest  possible 
trepidation,  lest  anything  should  be  overdone  or  underdone,  or  in 
any  way  done  wrong.  For  th,ey  had  been  duly  impressed 
with  the  magnitude  of  the  occasion,  and  they  were  trembling 
lest  the  magnitude  of  the  occasion  should  be  disgraced  by 
their  humble  efforts. 

Meanwhile  Good  Society  was  filled  with  soft  tremors  in 
the  drawing-room  above.  He  had  not  come  yet,  but  he  was 
coming.  Anxious  eyes  glanced  occasionally  out  at  the  front 
windows  on  Mount  Yernon  street,  to  see  if  he  was  approach- 


1 98  HARRINGTON. 

ing.  Eager  ears  listened  momently  for  the  slightest  intimation 
of  a  pull  at  the  bell-wire.  Palpitating  hearts  leaped  at  every 
footfall  in  the  highly  respectable  street,  and  Good  Society  was 
in  a  steady  flutter  of  delicious  expectation. 

Good  Society,  then  and  there  represented  by  Mrs.  Atkins, 
Miss  Atkins,  Miss  Julia  Atkins,  Mr.  Thomas  Atkins,  and 
Mr.  Horatio  Atkins  ;  and  elsewhere  represented  by  the  highly 
respectable  father  of  this  highly  respectable  family,  Mr.  Lemuel 
Atkins,  was  not  so  honored  every  day  in  the  week — by  no 
means.  Distinguished  gentlemen  had  come  there  to  dine  with 
us  ;  Count  Blomanosoff,  when  he  was  in  Boston,  had  come 
there  to  dine  with  us  ;  Lord  Hawbury  and  Lord  Charles 
Chawles,  when  they  were  in  Boston,  had  come  there  to  dine 
with  us  ;  and  eminent  clergymen,  and  able  lawyers,  and  dis 
tinguished  senators,  and  even  a  Massachusetts  Governor,  had 
come  there  to  dine  with  us.  But  a  rich  Southern  gentle 
man — oh  !  A  child  of  the  sunny  South — ah  !  A  gallant  and 
Chivalrous  son  of  Louisiana,  who  owns  an  immense  plantation, 
and  nobody  knows  how  many  of  his  fellow  creatures — de 
cidedly,  it  is  the  next  thing  to  having  Mr.  Webster  to  dine 
with  us. 

The  drawing-room  in  which  the  so  highly  honored  family 
were  assembled  in  eager  expectation,  was  a  large  oblong 
square,  papered  with  purple  and  gold-spotted  paper,  and  full  of 
gaudy  furniture.  There  were  two  chandeliers  hanging  from 
the  ceiling,  all  gilt  and  glitter  ;  gilt  sconces,  with  cut  glass 
globes,  on  the  walls  ;  a  profusion  of  gold-framed  pictures  and 
engravings  ;  large  mirrors  over  the  mantels  and  between  the 
windows  ;  red  velvet,  and  blue  velvet,  and  green  velvet  arm 
chairs  and  sofas,  all  around  ;  a  huge  piano  ;  vases  ;  ormolu 
tables  ;  tables  of  sienna  marble  ;  statuettes  on  brackets  ;  a 
bust  of  Mr.  Webster  on  a  pedestal;  divers  ornaments  in 
all  directions  ;  a  vivid,  huge-figured  Brussels  carpet  on  the 
floor  ;  and  yellow  and  purple  curtains  to  the  windows.  Taste, 
not  in  its  dying  agonies,  but  murdered  outright  and  horribly 
stone  dead,  was  the  prevailing  sentiment  of  the  entire  apart 
ment. 

Judged  by  a  rigorous  artistic  eye,  the  same  estheticide  was 


HARRINGTON.  193 

chargeable  upon  the  drawing-room's  occupants.  They  were  all 
excessively  a-la-mode  in  their  general  appearance,  and  evidently 
of  the  highest  respectability.  Mrs.  Atkins,  the  mother — who 
sat , languidly  leaning  in  the  corner  of  a  velvet  sofa,  with  her 
cheek  resting  on  her  fingers — was  a  fair-haired,  waxen-faced 
lady  of  middle  age,  with  pallid-blue  eyes,  a  snub  nose,  a  rabbit 
mouth  half  open,  and  a  receding  chin.  She  was  expensively 
arrayed  in  full  dress  of  changeable  silk,  with  many  flounces  ; 
wore  a  lace  cap,  and  had  a  general  air  of  weak  good-nature 
and  dawdling  insipidity,  enervating  to  behold.  Miss  Atkins, 
the  eldest  daughter,  who  occupied  the  other  end  of  the  sofa, 
was  a  yellow-haired,  waxen-faced  young  lady  of  at  least  twenty- 
five  ;  the  living  suggestion  of  what  her  mother  had  been  at  her 
age  ;  with  a  chin  even  more  receding,  a  nose  as  snub,  eyes  as 
pallidly  blue,  the  same  drooping  rabbit  mouth,  and  the  same 
air  of  mild  vapidity  and  hopeless  enervation.  She  was  also 
expensively  attired,  in  deep  blue  satin,  cut  low  in  the  neck,  and 
fitting  closely  to  her  full  and  shapely  bosom.  Julia,  the 
younger  daughter,  was  an  ultra  fashionable  miss  of  sweet  six 
teen  ;  with  a  bold,  saucy  face,  smooth  dark  hair,  a  short,  broad 
nose,  hard,  black  eyes,  a  prude's  mouth,  and  a  great  length  and 
breadth  of  flat  circular  jaw.  The  two  young  men,  who  were 
standing  like  highly  respectable  caryatides,  at  opposite  corners 
of  the  mantel,  were  snobs  of  the  purest  water,  both  in  dress 
and  manner.  They  were  got  up  in  the  English  style  ;  for, 
like  some  of  the  highly  respectable  Bostonians,  they  cherished 
a  noble  passion  for  that  sort  of  Anglicism  caricatured  by  Mr. 
Punch.  Their  blaek  trowsers  were  of  the  tightest,  on  legs  the 
slimmest  ;  their  black  dress  coats  were  close  in  the  body,  large 
in  the  sleeves,  and  small  in  the  tail  ;  their  vests  were  very  short, 
their  collars  high  and  stiff,  and  each  wore  the  Joinville  neck-tie,  a 
horizontal  bar  of  silk  reaching  from  ear  to  ear,  to  the  success 
ful  adjustment  of  which,  as  Punch  observed  about  that  time,  a 
man  had  to  give  his  whole  mind.  Whatever  mind  the  two 
young  Atkinses  possessed,  had  evidently  been  wholly  given,  for 
the  neck-ties  were  alarmingly  perfect,  and  constituted,  in  fact, 
an  incontestable  triumph  of  mind  over  matter.  In  the  solitude 
of  their  aspiring  souls,  the  young  men  worshipped  the  memory 

9 


194  HARRINGTON. 

of  Lord  Hawbury  and  Lord  Charles  Chawles,  and  moulded 
their  whiskers  after  the  style  of  whiskerage  patronized  by  those 
eminent  nobles.  It  mattered  not  that  the  vulgar  rumor  had 
crossed  the  Atlantic  that  Lord  Hawbury,  immediately  on*  his 
return  to  his  ancestral  acres,  had  been  clapped  into  limbo  by  a 
low  British  tradesman,  on  account  of  certain  pounds,  shillings 
and  pence  owed  by  him  the  said  Hawbury  to  him  the  said  low 
tradesman.  It  mattered  not  that  the  still  vulgarer  rumor  had 
crossed  the  Atlantic  that  Lord  Charles  Chawles,  that  bright, 
consummate  flower  of  the  British  aristocracy,  who  had  deigned 
to  honor  our  humble  homes  with  his  august  presence,  had  got 
into  a  row  hi  a  theatre  just  after  his  return  to  London — had, 
in  the  coarse  language  of  the  London  newspapers,  which  love 
to  hawk  at  merit,  got  drunk ;  cruelly  insulted  a  poor  ballet- 
dancer  behind  the  scenes;  cruelly  beat  and  trod  upon  the 
manager,  who  had  ventured  a  remonstrance;  had  thereupon 
been  borne  away,  roaring  and  fighting,  to  the  nearest  station- 
house,  from  whence  he  had  emerged  in  the  morning,  to  incur 
the  reprimand  of  a  magistrate,  and  pay  a  brawler's  fine. 
What  mattered  such  reports  as  these  ?  mere  evidence  of  the 
rush  and  outbreak  of  a  fiery  mind  of  general  assault,  as 
Horatio  felicitously  said,  quoting  from  Hamlet,  when  the 
rumor  reached  him.  Whiskers  were  whiskers  still,  and  so 
Horatio  trimmed  the  sandy  crop  which  was  his  own,  after  the 
Hawbury  model.  The  result  was  a  scraggy  mutton-chop, 
depending  big  end  down,  in  tawny,  straggling  moss  of  hair 
from  Horatio's  cheeks,  and  between  these  manly  hirsute  orna,- 
ments  loomed  a  bald,  flat,  tallowy,  superficial  face,  with  an  air 
of  sullen  emptiness  upon  it ;  with  short  brown  hair,  parted 
behind,  and  on  the  side,  and  brushed  forward  around  it ;  with 
a  low,  broad  forehead  ;  dull,  boiled  blue  eyes  ;  a  strong,  short 
nose  ;  a  thin,  lineless,  resolute  mouth  ;  and  a  great  expanse 
of  chin  and  jaw,  bolder  than,  but  like,  his  younger  sister's. 
Mighty  in  whiskerage  and  hair,  and  on  the  Lord  Charles 
Chawles  model,  was  Horatio's  brother  Thomas.  Hair,  tawny- 
brown  in  color,  parted  on  the  left,  sloping  up  and  off  crescendo 
to  fall  in  a  mass  on  the  right  side,  and  bunching  off  in  a  round, 
full  tuft  of  lesser  quantity  on  the  other  side.  This,  as  the  lob- 


HARRINGTON.  195 

sided  crown  of  a  puffy  face,  with  the  younger  sister's  chin  and 
jaw.  Eyes,  close  together,  hard,  black  and  insolent  ;  short 
nose,  a  compromise  between  .snub  and  straight,  with  a  lift  in 
the  nostrils,  as  if  it  snuffed  offence  ;  mouth,  a  short,  stern, 
small  horseshoe  curve,  cusps  down  ;  and  under  this,  on  the 
broad  and  long  flat  chin,  a  tawny  short  imperial,  and  over 
this,  curving  down  from  the  centre  of  the  nose  and  rounding 
up  the  cheeks,  in  a  military  pothook,  the  gallant  whiskerage 
of  Lord  Charles  Chawles.  Over  the  whole  face  an  expression 
of  sternly  supercilious  insolence,  inspiring  to  behold.  A  fine 
young  man — two  fine  young  men  indeed  ;  models  of  their 
kind  ;  full  of  the  pride  of  caste  and  all  its  callousness.  Des 
tined  to  be  citizens  of  the  highest  respectability,  when  their 
wild  oats — and  they  were  wild — were  sown  and  come  to  the 
hard  and  selfish  harvest.  Already  they  had  begun,  and  begun 
well.  Furnished  with  their  father's  money,  they  had  their 
club,  their  boon-companions,  their  mistresses,  their  fast  horses, 
and  drank  and  drove  and  gamed  and  revelled  in  a  manner 
hardly  outdone  by  Lord  Hawbury  and  Lord  .Charles  Chawles 
themselves.  They  were,  moreover,  stanch  young  Whigs — 
Union  men,  Constitution  men,  Litw  and  Order,  men,  Fugitive 
Slave  Law  men,  sound  on  the  goose  in  every  conceivable  par 
ticular.  Proof  of  their  devotion  to  their  country,  they  had 
only  the  Saturday  before,  foregone  their  customary  drive  on 
the  Cambridge  road,  foregone  their  supper  and  wine  at 
Porter's,  and  stayed  in  town  to  hear  Mr.  Webster  at  Faneuil 
Hall,  and  even  now,  Thomas,  the  younger  and  more  ardent 
spirit,  was  a  little  hoarse  from  cheering  on  that  memorable 
occasion.  Proof  again  of  their  devotion  to  their  country, 
which  always  meant  in  one  form  or  another  the  Southern- 
Slavery  part  of  their  country,  here  they  were,  nobly  sacrificing 
their  customary  drive,  to  muster  with  the  rest  of  the  family  and 
greet  the  ardent  son  of  the  sunny  South,  the  gallant  and 
chivalrous  Southern  gentleman  then  expected,  and  not  yet  come. 
He  was  coming,  though,  for  while  this  interesting  group, 
properly  stilted  for  the  occasion,  were  waiting  and  chatting,  a 
strenuous  pull  at  the  bell-wire  was  heard,  with  the  answering 
jingle  of  the  hall  bell. 


196  HARRINGTON. 

"  That's  him,  be  Jove  !"  exclaimed  Thomas,  straightening 
up  on  his  slim  legs,  and  adjusting  the  bows  of  his  neck-tie, 
while  he  looked  with  military  sternness  at  the  drawing-room 
door. 

Horatio,  who,  with  the  laudable  desire  to  add  brillia'ncy,  as 
was  his  wont  on  company  days,  to  the  dinner-table  conversa 
tion,  had  been  diligently  storing  his  memory  with  the  quaint 
sayings  of  Charles  Lamb — for  Charles  Lamb  is  quite  the  ton 
with  the  young  Boston  aristocracy,  as  Alexander  Pope  is  with 
the  old — laid  the  book,  which  he  had  brought  down  to  study 
till  the  last  minute,  on  the  mantel  behind  a  large  vase,  and 
with  a  glance  into  the  mirror  behind  him  to  see  that  his  neck 
tie  was  all  right,  assumed  a  dignified  and  graceful  attitude, 
with  his  left  thumb  inserted  in  his  vest  pocket,  and  his  head 
turned  solemnly  toward  the  door.  Mrs.  Atkins,  without  mov 
ing,  cast  a  glance  along  her  flounces,  and  made  sure  in  her 
mind  that  she  was  seated  so  as  to  be  able  to  rise  gracefully 
when 'the  guest  appeared.  Her  eldest  daughter,  with  a  little 
soft  palpitation  at  heart,  for  the  guest  might  be  a  bachelor  or 
a  widower,  and  she  was  ready  to  fall  in  love  with  any  child  of 
the  sunny  South,  or  son  of  the  icy  North,  who  had  money  and 
social  position,  also  cast  an  eye  at  her  ample  skirts,  and  a 
mind's  eye  at  her  capabilities  for  rising.  The  other  daughter, 
Julia,  started  bolt  upright  in  her  chair,  and  with  her  hard, 
black  eyes  fixed  on  the  door  as  though  she  would  look  through 
the  panels,  listened  intently. 

Presently  they  heard  Michael  shuffling  along  through  the 
hall,  and  then  the  hall  door  opening. 

"  Is  Mr.  Atkins  in  ?"  demanded  a  resonant,  loud  voice, 
which  was  heard  in  the  drawing-room. 

A  moment's  silence,  and  Michael's  reply  inaudible. 

"Will  he  be  in  soon?" 

Another  silence,  and  Michael's  reply  again  inaudible. 

"Well,  I'll  wait  for  him." 

Michael  was  heard  this  time,  explaining  in  a  thin  key  that 
Mr.  Atkins  had  company,  and  wouldn't  wish  to  see  him. 

"  Can't  help  that,"  was  the  bluff  answer,  followed  by  heavy 
feet  stamping  into  the  hall,  and  the  dump  of  a  heavy  body 


HARRINGTON.  197 

flinging  itself  on  one  of  the  hall  chairs.  "It's  a  matter  of 
business,  and  he  won't  thank  you  if  I  don't  see  him.  Mind 
that,  my  man." 

"  Humbug  !"  blurted  out  Horatio,  taking  up  his  book  again. 
"  It's  not  him." 

"  0  fiddlestick  !"  was  the  elegant  exclamation  of  Julia,  in  a 
•pet,  "  he's  not  coming  at  all." 

"  Hush,  my  child,"  said  her  mamma  in  a  soft,  drawling 
voice,  "  don't  be  impatient.  Show  your  breeding,  my  child, 
show  your  breeding." 

"  Well,  be  Jove,  I'd  like  to  know  who  that  is  I"  exclaimed 
Thomas,  with  some  vehemence  ;  "  coming  into  the  house  like 
the  sheriff,  be  Jove." 

Michael  meanwhile,  having  probably  stood  still  for  a  min 
ute,  was  now  heard  shutting  the  hall  door,  and  presently  came 
into  the  drawing-room,  and  closing  the  door  behind  him,  gave 
an  account  of  the  'dialogue. 

"  Who  is  the  man,  Mike  ?"  demanded  Thomas  in  the  impera 
tive  mood.  "  What  does  he  look  like  ?" 

Michael  replied  that  he  looked  like  a  sailor,  though  he  was 
not  dressed  in  sailor's  clothes. 

"  0  it's  some  of  father's  people  from  the  wharf,"  said  Hora 
tio.  "  Better  show  him  up  into  the  library,  and  not  have  him 
sitting  there  like  a  scare-crow." 

"Yes,  Michael,  show  him  up  into  the  library,"  said  Mrs. 
Atkins,  "  and  tell  him  Mr.  Atkins  will  be  in  soon.  If  it's 
business,  your  father  will  want  to  see  him,  for  he  always  sees 
people  that  come  on  business,"  she  added,  in  a  lower  tone,  as 
Michael  slid  out  of  the  room. 

They  were  quiet  again  for  a  minute,  while  the  heavy  boots 
of  the  visitor  were  heard  thumping  up  over  the  carpeted  stairs 
into  distance. 

"  Be  Jove  !"  said  Thomas,  with  a  fierce  air,  "  that  chap  goes 
up  like  one  of  Dan  Rice's  elephants,  be  Jove  !  Now  then, 
where's  our  Southern  friend  ?  That's  the  next  question." 

"Mamma,"  said  Miss  Atkins,  in  a  soft,  debilitated  voice, 
with  a  slight  lisp,  "do  you  know  if  he's  married  ?" 

"No,  Caroline,  I  don't  know,"  replied  Mrs.  Atkins,  Ian- 


198  HARRINGTON. 

guidly.  "  But  I  think  he's  not,  or  he  would  have  brought  his 
wife  with  him.  These  Southern  gentlemen  are  so  gallant,  you 
know,  and  they  always  bring  their  wives  with  them." 

"  Eeod,  Carry,"  blurted  Thomas,  while  Caroline  was  taking 
the  flattering  unction  of  her  mother's  astonishing  answer  to  her 
soul — "if  he's  got  a  wife  already,  it's  all  up  with  your  chance, 
me  girl.  Our  Southern  friends  are  the  deuce  and  all  among 
the  women,  but  Louisiana  ain't  Turkey,  you  k»ow." 

"  Now,  Tom,  I  should  be  ashamed,"  exclaimed  Julia,  bridling. 
"  One  would  think  you  were  never  brought  up  in  good  society, 
and  I  should  be  ashamed,  I  should." 

"  Oh,  you  cork  up,  Jule,"  was  the  fine  youth's  exquisite 
reply.  "You  girls  allow  yourselves  too  much  tongue,  be 
Jove  !" 

"  Hush,  Julia,"  interposed  Mrs.  Atkins,  with  soft  authority, 
stopping  the  young  lady's  angry  retort.  "  Silence,  this  instant. 
You  musn't  speak  to.  your  brother  that  way.  It's  low,  my 
child — very  low,  and  you  must  show  your  breeding." 

Julia  was  silent,  but  glared  spitefully  at  Thomas.  It  is 
noticeable  that  Mrs.  Atkins  never  reproved  her  boys.  Her 
girls  she  kept  a  check-rein  upon  constantly. 

"  Mamma,"  continued  Caroline,  perfectly  unmoved  by  her 
brother's  late  remarks,  "  does  he  own  a  very  large  plantation, 
and  how  many  negroes  has  he,  mamma  ?" 

"  Indeed,  I  can't  tell  you,  Caroline,"  replied  Mrs.  Atkins, 
blandly.  "  I  think  he  must  have  a  great  many  of  the  horrid 
creatures,  for  those  Southern  gentlemen  all  have  a  great  many, 
and  numbers  of  the  ungrateful  things  run  away,  which  was  the 
reason  why  the  Fugitive  Slave  Bill  was  passed,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  and  I  wish  the  South  would  just  march  up  back  here 
on  Nigger  Hill,  and  lug  off  the  whole  pack  of  them,  men, 
women,  and  children,  for  they're  a  disgrace  to  the  neighbor 
hood,  and  it's  a  burning  shame  to  have  them  staying  away  from 
their  masters,"  growled  Horatio,  looking  up  from  the  gentle 
and  human  pages  of  Charles  Lamb. 

"  All  I  know  about  him,"  resumed  Mrs.  Atkins,  continuing 
her  notice  of  the  expected  guest,  "is  what  your  father  said  in 
the  note  he  sent  up  to  the  house.  Namely,  that  he  belongs  to 


HARRINGTON.  199 

a  great  cotton-house  in  New  Orleans,  with  which  your  father 
deals  largely,  and  that  he  owns  a  plantation,  and  that  he  is  a 
•splendid  fellow,  and  a  real  Southern  gentleman,  and  one  of  the 
chivalry,  and  all  that,  and  that  we  must  have  an  excellent 
dinner,  and  treat  him  with  true  Northern  hospitality,  and  so 
forth.  All  which  you  saw  in  the  note,  and  really  I  don't  know 
any  more  about  him.  But  of  course  he  is  a  perfect  gentleman, 
for  all  the  Southern  gentlemen  are  perfect  gentlemen,  and  they 
are  as  gallant  and  chivalrous  as  gentlemen  can  be,  and  as  dis 
tingue  as — as  Count  Blomanosoff,  and  I'm  sure  nothing  could 
be  more  distingue  than  Count  Blomanosoff,  you  know."  fc 

To  compare  anybody  to  the  horrent-whiskered  Russ  who 
had  dined  with  the  Atkinses  on  his  way  to  Washington,  was 
the  highest  compliment  Mrs.  Atkins  could  pay.  Count  Blo 
manosoff  was  the  god  of  her  idolatry. 

"  Dear  me,  I  wish  he  would  come  !"  exclaimed  Julia,  fidget 
ing  in  her  chair. 

As  if  in  response  to  her  wish,  and  before  her  mother  could 
again  entreat  her  to  show  her  breeding,  the  door-bell  rang. 

"  Here  he  is,  be  Jove  1"  cried  Thomas,  amidst  a  general  flut 
ter  and  movement. 

Anxious  silence  succeeded,  while  Michael  was  shuffling  to 
the  door.  Presently,  the  noise  of  entering  feet,  a  full,  decisive 
voice  saying  something,  and  a  soft,  smooth,  courteous  voice 
answering  ;  then,  after  a  moment's  pause,  the  drawing-room 
door  swung  open,  and  behind  the  sturdy  form  of  Mr.  Lemuel 
Atkins,  the  enraptured  ladies  saw  the  rich  brunette  complex 
ion,  the  long  waven  hair  and  thick  moustache,  and  the  lordly 
figure  of  their  Southern  guest. 

At  the  first  glance  they  were  enchanted.  So  handsome,  so 
gallant,  so  chivalrous  I  Mrs.  Atkins  rose  with  a  sweeping  rus 
tle  of  flounces,  and  stepped  forward;  and  there  was  a  general 
rustle  of  rising  and  moving  as  the  two  entered. 

"  Here  we  are,"  cried  Mr.  Atkins,  in  his  rotund,  energetic 
voice,  striding  in  as  he  spoke,  with  a  smile  on  his  hard  visage, 
and  stepping  aside  to  pause  and  turn  with  an  extended  hand 
toward  his  guest.  "  Mr.  Lafitte,  I  have  the  honor  to  present 
you  to  my  wife.  My  love,  Mr.  Lafitte,  of  Louisiana." 


200  HARRINGTON. 

Mrs.  Atkins  curtseyed  low  as  she  slid  forward  with  out 
stretched  hand,  her  waxen  face  slightly  colored,  and  wreathed 
with  smiles. 

"  I  am  most  happy  to  see  you,  Mr.  Lafitte,"  she  softly  mur 
mured,  "  and  I  am  delighted  to  welcome  you  to  Boston." 

"  Madam,  I  am  charmed  with  the  honor  you  do  me,"  cour 
teously  returned  the  Southerner,  bowing  low  with  her  hand  in 
his,  and  serenely  smiling. 

"And  this  is  my  eldest  daughter,  sir,"  continued  the  mer 
chant.  "  Caroline,  Mr.  Lafitte." 

Caroline  looked  very  pretty,  as  with  a  fluttering  heart,  and 
a  faint  sea-shell  pink  on  her  cheeks  and  lips,  she  wafted  herself 
forward,  and  dawdled  down  into  a  low  curtsey,  with  a  languish 
ing  glance  at  the  rich  brunette  visage  of  the  Southerner.  Mr. 
Lafitte  glided  up  to  her,  bowing,  pressed  her  hand  in  his,  and 
cast  into  her  eyes  a  momentary  ardent  look,  which  threw  Caro 
line  into  feeble  ecstasy. 

"  I  am  enchanted  to  meet  you,  Miss  Atkins,"  said  Mr.  La 
fitte,  in  a  low,  smooth  voice,  sweeter  than  music  to  her  ear. 

Caroline  was  so  overcome  with  rapture,  that  she  could  only 
color,  curtsey,  cast  another  languishing  glance  at  her  adorer, 
and  withdraw  a  pace  or  two,  while  her  father  introduced  Julia. 
Then  came  Horatio's  turn,  and  then  Thomas's.  Horatio  did 
it  in  the  aristocratic  Hawbury  style — a  solemn  face,  a  stiff 
bend  of  the  back,  the  thumb  of  the  left  hand  in  his  vest 
pocket,  and  his  right  hand  clasping  Mr.  Lafitte's  fingers. 
Thomas  came  the  Lord  Charles  Chawles — head  up,  shoulders 
back,  coat-tail  jutting  out  in  the  bow,  legs  wide,  hand  slowly 
wagging  Mr.  Lafitte's,  horse-shoe  mouth  agrin,  and  voice  re 
marking,  "  Mr.  Lafitte,  yours — glad  to  meet  you,  sir  ;  be  Jove, 
I  am  I"  To  which  Mr.  Lafitte  replied,  that  he  was  always 
proud  to  make  a  gentleman's  acquaintance,  especially  yours, 
Mr.  Atkins,  on  this  happy  occasion. 

The  introductions  successfully  over,  Mr.  Lafitte  was  invited 
to  take  a  seat  near  the  hostess,  and  the  rest  of  the  company 
settled  into  their  respective  chairs,  Mr.  Atkins  surveying  them 
all  with  an  air  of  proud  and  smiling  gratification.  He  was  a 
strong,  sturdily-built  man,  of  good  presence,  dressed  in  black, 


HARRINGTON.  201 

with  a  purple  velvet  vest,  crossed  by  a  short  and  thick  gold 
chain.  On  his  little  finger  he  wore  a  heavy  gold  seal-ring,  with 
a  red  stone.  His  face  was  more  like  Horatio's  and  Julia's 
than  any  of  the  others,  but  much  finer  and  stronger  than 
cither's,  for  Mr.  Atkins's  boyhood  was  cast  in  the  robust  life 
of  a  country  town,  and  he  had  fought  his  way  up  to  wealth 
and  social  position  in  Boston,  battling  with  the  forces  of  trade, 
and  hewing  out  for  himself  the  character  of  a  self-made  man. 
The  black,  hard  eyes  of  his  younger  daughter,  and  the  short, 
bold  nose  and  large  round  jaw  of  her  and  the  sons,  were  strong- 
lier  seen  in  him  than  in  them.  He  was  smooth-shaven,  wore 
his  hair  short,  and  had  the  blanched,  resolute  color  of  a  man 
whose  days  had  been  strenuously  devoted  to  money-making. 
Usually  his  face  was  decisive  and  stern,  though  now  it  was 
relaxed  into  a  proud  and  gratified  smile,  as  he  surveyed  his 
guest  and  family  circle. 

"  Charming  weather  you're  having  in  Boston,  madam," 
remarked  Mr.  Lafitte,  addressing  his  hostess.  "  Cooler  though 
than  when  I  left  Louisiana  three  weeks  ago.  We  had  some 
of  the  hottest  days  there  in  April  that  I  jever  knew.  It  was 
positively  like  midsummer." 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Lafitte,"  sighed  Mrs.  Atkins,  "  our  climate  must 
seem  cold  to  you,  who  have  come  so  lately  from  the  sunny 
South.  Is  this  your  first  visit  to  Boston  ?" 

"  Yes,  madam,  it  is  the  first  time  I  ever  had  the  pleasure 
of  visiting  your  beautiful  city,"  courteously  replied  the  South 
erner.  "  I  was  sorry  not  to  be  able  to  get  here  in  time  to 
hear  Mr.  Webster,  who  spoke,  they  tell  me,  in  your  Faneuil 
Hall,  last  Saturday.  Dear  Webster  !  I  positively  love  him 
as  if  he  were  my  brother.  He  is  doing  such  a  good  work  for 
our  common  country." 

"  Oh,  isn't  he  splendid  !"  lisped  Miss  Atkins,  with  a  lan 
guishing  air.  "  So  statesmanlike  !  We  were  all  there  to 
hear  him,  Mr.  Lafitte.  Oh,  it  was  beautiful !" 

"  I  can  well  imagine  that,  Miss  Atkins,"  replied  Mr.  Lafitte, 
smiling  blandly  at  her  ;  "  and  it  was  really  patriotic  in  you  to 
lend  the  grace  and  beauty  of  your  presence,  ladies,  to  orna 
ment  such  an  occasion.  Dear  Webster  is  giving  abolition 

9* 


202  HARRINGTON. 

fanaticism  its  death-blow.  By  the  way,  speaking  of  fanaticism, 
Mr.  Atkins  pointed  out  two  of  your  notorieties  to  me  in  the 
street  to-day — Garrison  and  Wendell  Phillips." 

li  Horrid  wretches  1"  murmured  Mrs.  Atkins,  in  a  die-away 
tone. 

"  Be  Jove  1"  blurted  Thomas,  "  I'd  just  like  to  put  an 
ounce  of  lead  into  them  two.  I  would,  be  Jove  !" 

"  Very  patriotic,"  said  Mr.  Lafitte,  with  a  courteous  incli 
nation  of  his  head  toward  the  speaker,  "and  spoken  in  the 
true  Southern  spirit." 

"  Those  two  men  ought  to  be  hung,"  said  Horatio, 
solemnly,  emulous  of  Southern  approbation.  "  They  make 
me  tbink  of  that  anecdote  of  Charles  Lamb,  Mr.  Lafitte. 
You  remember,  sir,  a  stranger  called  on  Lamb  at  the  West 
Indy  House.  '  Are  you  Mr.  Lamb  ?'  said  he.  '  Well/  said 
Charles,  feeling  the  grey  whisker  on  his  cheek,  '  I  think  I'm 
old  enough  to  be  a  sheep.'  Now,  Garrison  and  Wendell 
Phillips,"  continued  Horatio,  making  the  exquisitely  felicitous 
application,  "  they're  old  enough  to  be  sheep,  and  I  go  for 
making  them  dead  mutton." 

"  Ha,  ha,  capital !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Atkins,  with  a  mild 
bellow,  looking  around  on  the  Company,  with  a  smiling,  open 
mouth  of  satisfaction  in  his  son's  wit. 

"  Very  good,  be  Jove  1"  said  Thomas,  with  a  grin. 

Mrs.  Atkins  feebly  clapped  her  hands,  and  said,  "  good, 
good,"  and  Caroline  giggled,  and  softly  murmured,  "  Oh, 
Horatio,  you're  so  funny  !" 

What  a  set  of  damned  boobies  !  thought  Mr.  Lafitte  ; 
then  aloud  :  "  Yes,  .that's  a  capital  story,  and  your  applica 
tion  of  it,  Mr.  Horatio,  is  one  of  the  best  things  I've  heard. 
But  I  was  surprised  to  see  that  Garrison  is  quite  a  mild,  bene 
volent-looking  man.  We  think  of  him  down  South,  you  know, 
as  a  red-faced  brawler,  and  I  was  struck  with  the  contrast 
between  the  original  and  the  fancy  portrait.  Phillips,  too, 
surprised  me  still  more,  for  he  has  the  air  of  a  high-bred  gen 
tleman.  I'll  tell  you  who  he  reminded  me  of.  You  are 
aware,  ladies,  that  the  Mobilians  are  famous  for  their  polished 
grace  and  high  breeding.  Now,  the  flower  of  them  all  is 


HARRINGTON.  203 

Tom  Lafourcade.  In  fact  his  elegance  and  dignity  of  manner 
and  bearing  are  town-talk  down  there.  Well,  if  you'll  believe 
me,  Phillips,  though  he  has  a  graver  and  less  pronounced  air, 
actually  reminded  me  of  Tom  Lafourcade." 

"  Dear  me  !  how  surprising,"  softly  exclaimed  Mrs.  Atkins. 

"  Why,  yes,  madam,  very,"  returned  Mr.  Lafitte.  "  It  was 
really  odd  to  come  North  and  have  the  arch  abolition  fanatic 
remind  one  of  princely  Tom  Lafourcade,  of  Mobile." 

"  Oh,  he's  very  handsome,"  lisped  Caroline,  pensively.  "  But 
so  fanatical." 

"  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Lafitte,  it's  an  awful  pity  about  Phillips," 
broke  in  Mr.  Atkins.  •"  He's  very  much  of  a  gentleman,  a 
splendid  orator,  full  of  ability  every  way,  and  belongs  to  one 
of  our  most  respectable  families.  Why,  I  heard  Choate  say 
once  that  if  he'd  stuck  to  the  bar,  he'd  have  been  the  first 
lawyer  in  America.  Yes,  sir.  And  there's  no  doubt  that  if 
he  was  in  our  party  he'd  be  second  to  no  man  in  the  country, 
unless  it  was  Webster.  But  he's  thrown  himself  away — posi 
tively  sacrificed  all  his  influence  and  wasted  his  talents  by 
joining  that  abolition  crew." 

"  In  short,  Nicodemused  himself  into  nothing,  as  Charles 
Lamb  says,"  observed  Horatio. 

"  Nicodemused  ?"  interrogated  Mr.  Lafitte.  "  Might  I  ask 
the  meaning  of  that  phrase,  sir  ?  I  am  so  dull,  and  I  confess 
my  unacquaintance  with  Lamb." 

It  is  not  Charles  Lamb,  but  another  humorist,  who,  allud 
ing  to  the  obstructive  influence  of  an  ugly  name  upon  its 
owner's  career,  and  giving  parents  a  quaint  hint  for  the  chris 
tening,  remarks,  "  don't  Nicpdemus  a  boy  into  nothing." 
Horatio,  who  only  remembered  the  phrase  for  its  oddity,  and 
as  usual  with  his  quotations,  lugged  it  into  his  remarks,  with 
out  much  thought  of  its  relevancy,  utterly  forgetting  the  con 
text  and  the  meaning,  was  considerably  disconcerted  by  Mr. 
Lafitte's  question,  and  reddened  slightly. 

"  Nicodemused,  Mr.  Lafitte?"  he  stammered.  "Why,  you 
know,  sir,"  he  continued,  as  a  happy  means  of  extrication  from 
his  difficulty,  suggested  itself — "  you  know  that  the  Bible  says 
Nicodemus  went  to  Christ." 


20  4:  HARRINGTON. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  see.  And  lost  his  influence  by  so  doing," 
blandly  answered  Mr.  Lafitte,  with  a  furtive  smile  which  no 
body  noticed.  "  Yes,  yes.  That's  very  clear.  Very  happily 
said,  sir,  and  I'm  much  obliged  to  you  for  enlightening  my 
stupidity.  So  Phillips  has  Nicodemused  himself  into  nothing  ?" 

"  Indeed  he  has,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Atkins.  "Just  thrown 
away  his  talents,  and  misused  his  eloquence  in  denouncing  the 
Compromise  Measures,  and  Mr.  Webster,  and  Slavery,  and  all 
the  best  interests  of  his  country." 

"  Be  Jove,  he's  a  fool,  that's  what  he  is,"  remarked  Thomas, 
caressing  his  military  whiskerage. 

"  He's  worse,  Tom,"  replied  his  father  ;  "  he's  a  traitor,  and 
ought  to  be  indicted  for  treason." 

"  Does  he  move  in  good  society  here,  Mr.  Atkins  ?''  blandly 
asked  Mr.  Lafitte. 

"  He  !  Why,  sir,  he's  a  rank  Disunionist !"  exclaimed  the 
merchant.  "  A  Disunionist  received  into  good  society!  My 
dear  sir,  what  are  you  thinking  of  !" 

"  Pardon  me,"  politely  returned  the  Southerner,  with  a 
courteous  inclination  of  his  head,  and  cherishing  in  secret,  a 
malicious  desire  to  corner  his  host,  though  he  must  tell  a  lie  to 
do  it — "  pardon  me,  I  did  not  know.  You  are  aware  that  I 
am  a  Disunionist  myself.  The  difference  I  apprehend  to  be 
this  :  Phillips  is  for  a  Dissolution  of  the  Union  for  the  sake 
of  liberty  ;  I  am  for  a  dissolution  of  the  Union  for  the  sake  of 
slavery.  I  state  it  frankly,  for  I  wish  to  plainly  present  the 
fact  that  we  are  both  Disunionists,  though  for  different  reasons. 
Now  am  I  to  infer  that  the  fact  of  my  Disunion  sentiments 
would  exclude  me  from  good  society  here  ?  For  I  have  letters 
to  some  of  your  leading  citizens,  and  it  would  indeed  be  awk 
ward  were  I  to  present  them  where  I  should  not  be  welcome." 

"  No,  sir,  no  indeed,  sir,"  replied  the  merchant  with  sono 
rous  emphasis.  "  That  is  a  different  case  altogether,  sir. 
Entirely  different.  We  honor  the  spirit  of  Southern  gentle 
men  in  defence  of  their  property,  sir,  and  our  first  society  is 
always  open  to  them,  Mr.  Lafitte." 

"  You  Southern  gentleman  are  so  chivalrous  1"  said  Mrs. 
Atkins,  with  languid  playfulness. 


HARRINGTON.  205 

"  So  ardent  1"  lisped  Caroline,  with  a  languishing  glance  at 
the  Southerner. 

"  Indeed,  ladies,  you  overwhelm  me,"  returned  Mr.  Lafitte, 
gallantly;  "  and  I  am  glad  to  perceive  the  true  state  of  the 
case,  Mr.  Atkins.  It  is  curious,  however,  if  we  look  at  it 
from  one  point  of  view,  that  Mr.  Phillips,  who,  as  you  say,  is 
very  much  of  a  gentleman,  one  of  your  most  talented  men, 
and  belonging  to  one  of  your  most  respectable  families — it  is 
curious  that  he  should  be  sent  to  Coventry  by  your  first  society 
for  his  Disunion,  and  we  received  so  handsomely  for  ours.  But 
then,  he  is  for  liberty,  and  we  are  for  slavery,  which,  as  you 
happily  observed,  makes  an  important  difference.  Yes,  I  see 
the  distinction,  and  it  is  both  broad  and  just.  An  admirable 
distinction,  indeed,  and  one  that  does  your  society  great 
credit." 

Mr.  Lafitte  said  all  this  so  courteously — with  such  flattering 
and  affable  sincerity  of  voice  and  manner — that  his  listeners 
had  not  the  slightest  apprehension  of  the  terrific  sarcasm 
which  lurked  in  his  words.  They  took  it  all  as  an  elaborate 
compliment,  and  sat  smiling  and  simpering  at  him,  each  after 
his  or  her  respective  fashion.  The  damned,  mean,  contempti 
ble,  servile  curs — tabooing  their  own  Disunionists,  and  ducking 
and  smiling  to  ours  ! — was  Mr.  Lafitte's  irreverent  mental 
reflection,  as,  softly  fingering  his  moustache,  with  the  most 
affable  of  smiles  lighting  bis  rich  brunette  complexion,  he 
equably  surveyed  them — floods  of  contemptuous  disgust  mean 
while  raging  delightedly  in  his  lordly  bosom . 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Atkins,"  said  the  lady  of  the  house,  "I  almost 
forgot  to  tell  you  that  a — a  person  called  to  see  you,  and  is 
up-stairs  in  the  library." 

"  A  person.  Who  is  he  ?  I  can't  see  persons  now.  Send 
up  word  that  I'm  engaged,"  returned  the  merchant,  somewhat 
•brusquely. 

"  Michael  thought  he  was  a  sailor,"  drawled  Mrs.  Atkins, 
in  her  fal-lal  voice  ;  "  and  he  said  he'd  come  on  business  of  im 
portance,  and  that  you'd  want  to  see  him." 

"  Oh,  business.  That's  another  affair,"  returned  her  husband, 
rising  and  looking  at  his  watch.  "  Business  before  pleasure 


206  HARRINGTON. 

always.  You'll  excuse  me  a  few  moments,  Mr.  Lafitte.  I'll 
be  right  down." 

"  Certainly,  sir,  certainly,"  said  the  Southerner,  blandly 
bowing. 

Mr.  Atkins  at  once  left  the  drawing-room  and  went  up-stairs 
into  the  library.  The  visitor,  a  short,  strongly-built  man,  with 
a  sunburnt  face,  who  was  slowly  walking  up  and  down,  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  came  toward  him  as  he  entered. 

"Why,  Captain  Bangham!  You?  How  are  you?"  ex 
claimed  the  merchant,  smiling,  and  shaking  hands  with  him. 

"  All  right,  Mr.  Atkins.     How  are  you,  sir  ?" 

"  Capital.     And  so  the  Soliman's  in." 

"  Yes,  sir.  Came  up  this  morning.  I've  been  waiting  at 
the  office  pretty  much  all  day  " 

"  Indeed.  I'm  sorry,  captain.  But,  for  a  wonder,  Lafitte 
came  to  town,  and  I've  been  showing  him  round." 

Captain  Bangham  started,  and  slapped  his  hips  with  his 
hands. 

"  Lafitte  in  town  !"  he  burst  out.     "  Which  one  of  'em  ?" 

"  Lafitte  the  younger.  Tor  wood,  you  know,"  returned  the 
merchant,  taking  an  easy  chair. 

"The  hell  he  is  !"  ejaculated  the  profane  captain,  reddening, 
and  thrusting  both  hands  into  his  pocket.  "  You  don't  mean 
to  say  he's  down-stairs  now  ?" 

"Why  Bangham,  what  in  the  world's  the  matter  with  you, 
man  ?"  said  the  surprised  merchant,  staring  at  him  "  Down 
stairs  ?  Of  course  he's  down  stairs.  Come  to  dine  with 
us." 

"  Well,  I'm  damned  !"  vociferated  the  excited  captain. 
"  If  this  ain't  horrid." 

He  stamped  off,  with  his  hands  in  his  pocket,  while  Mr. 
Atkins  stared  at  him,  as  if  he  thought  the  man  had  gone 
mad. 

"  Captain  Bangham,"  said  the  merchant,  slowly,  "  will  you 
be  so  good  as  to  tell  me  what  you  mean  by  this  extraordinary 
ebullition.  What's  the  matter  ?  Isn't  the  Soliman  all  right  ? 
Has  the  cargo  " 

"The  matter's  just  this,  Mr.  Atkins,"  broke  in  the  sailor, 


HARRINGTON.  207 

coming  toward  him,  and  flinging  himself  into  a  chair.  "  Soli- 
man,  cargo,  and  all  is  right.  There's  nothing  the  matter  with 
them  " 

"Then  what  is  the  matter?"  demanded  the  merchant, 
angrily. 

"  The  matter's  this,  Mr.  Atkins,"  roared  Bangham,  pound 
ing  his  knees  with  his  clenched  hands.  ''When  we  were 
three  days  out  we  found  a  blasted  nigger,  half  smothered 
in  the  hold.  And  that  nigger  belongs  to  Torwood  Lafitte, 
and  you've  got  him  down-stairs  to  dine  with  you.  Yes,  sir, 
I've  got  the  nigger  tied  up  aboard  the  brig  this  minute, 
and  you've  got  his  master." 

Mr.  Atkins  turned  white,  and  sat  looking  at  the  sailor  with 
rigid  lips. 

"Yes,  sir.  That's  the  matter,"  continued  Bangham. 
"  And  matter  enough,  too,  Mr.  Atkins.  Just  think  of  what 
Lafitte  '11  say  if  he  hears  that  his  nigger  got  off  on  your  brig. 
Just  think  of  the  row  there'll  be  in  Orleans  if  it  gets  out. 
They'll  seize  me  f<jr  it,  if  the  brig  ever  touches  the  levee  again, 
Mr.  Atkins." 

"  She'll  touch  the  levee  again  with  that  scoundrel  on  board 
of  her,"  shouted  the  merchant,  with  an  oath,  thrusting  his 
thumbs  into  the  arm-holes  of  his  vest,  and  swelling  proudly. 
"  They  shall  know  in  New  Orleans  that  we're  law-abiding  citi 
zens,  Bangham.  Back  he  shall  go,  and  it  will  redound  to  the 
credit  of  the  house  when  it's  known  that  we  sent  him  back 
promptly.  I'm  glad  you  came  to  tell  me  this,  Bangham.  Just 
keep  it  quiet.  He  shall  go  back  just  as  soon  as  the  Soliman 
can  get  ready  for  the  return  voyage." 

"  All  right,  sir,"  replied  the  sailor.  "  But,  Mr.  Atkins, 
we've  got  him  here  now  in  Boston  Bay,  and  how  are  we  going 
to  take  him  back  without  going  to  law  about  it  ?  Hadn't 
Lafitte  better  bring  him  before  a  Commissioner,  and  have  a 
certificate  made  out " 

"No,"  interrupted  the  merchant,  with  strenuous  emphasis. 
"  I'll  have  it  said  in  New  Orleans  that  a  Boston  merchant 
can  show  his  devotion  to  the  interests  of  the  South  without 
any  ridiculous  formalities.  It'll  strike  them"  well,  Bangham, 


208  HARRINGTON. 

and  raise  our  credit  there.  Besides,  if  we  go  before  the  Com 
missioner,  those  infernal  Abolitionists  will  have  another  long 
fuss  about  it,  as  they  had  about  Sims,  and  who  knows  but  that 
they'll  rescue  him  as  they  did  Shadrach.  No,  I'll  make  sure 
work  of  it.  If  the  black  villain  were  to  escape,  the  effect  on 
my  trade  would  be  as  bad  in  New  Orleans  as  if  I  hadn't  done 
my  best  to  return  him,  and  I  won't  have  my  trade  injured. 
Business  before  everything.  I'm  not  going  to  have  the  delay 
of  the  law,  nor  the  risks  either,  in  this  matter.  So  just  hold 
on  to  the  black  reprobate,  Bangham,  till  we  can  return 
him." 

"  It's  rather  risky,  Mr.  Atkins,"  demurred  the  sailor.  "  You 
know  it's  illegal,  sir,  to  take  off  the  man  without  due  process 
of  law,  and  if  the  Grand  Jury  gets  hold  of  it,  they'll  be  apt  to 
indict  you  for  kidnapping." 

" Indict  we?"  returned  the  merchant.  "Ho,  ho,  Bang- 
ham,"  he  laughed,  "  you're  verdant,  my  man.  There's  not  a 
Grand  Jury  would  ever  find  a  bill  against  me  for  that,  Bang- 
ham.  Why,  bless  your  soul,  Bangham,  the  Grand  Jury's 
made  up  of  our  most  respectable  citizens— property  holders 
every  man  of  them — Fugitive  Slave  Law  men  to  the  backbone 
— and  do  you  think  they'd  indict  me  for  an  act  in  the  very 
spirit  of  the  Compromise  Measures,  and  for  the  best  interests 
of  our  Southern  commerce  ?  Oh,  no,  Bangham  1  There's  not 
one  of  them  that  wouldn't  wink  at  it — not  one.  No  fear  about 
the  Grand  Jury,  captain,  not  the  least  in  the  world.  But  you 
haven't  told  me  how  this  black  wretch  got  aboard." 

"  And  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  know,  Mr.  Atkins,"  replied  the 
sailor,  with  another  thump  on  his  knees.  "  All  I  know  is, 
that  when  we  were  three  days  out  we  unbattened  one  of  the 
hatches  to  get  an  axe  that  had  been  left  in  there  accidentally, 
and  there  was  the  black  beast,  almost  dead.  Lord,  how  he 
smelt  !  It  was  horrid.  And  he  looked  like  the  very  devil 
himself.  Had  an  iron  collar  on  his  neck,  with  the  name  of 
Lafitte  Brothers  engraved  on  it.  He  escaped  from  the  Red 
River,  lived  in  a  swamp  with  the  snakes  and  alligators,  got 
down  the  river  somehow,  and  had  a  horrid  tune  all  round. 
Didn't  seem  to  know,  or  else  he  wouldn't  tell,  how  he  got 


HARRINGTON.  209 

aboard  the  brig.  Fact  is,  the  black  pig's  not  more  than  half 
witted  now,  with  all  he's  gone  through." 

"  Badly  treated  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Atkins,  placidly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  treated  bad  enough,"  carelessly  replied  the  sailor. 
"  Lafitte's  a  high-binder  with  his  niggers,  I  reckon.  This 
chap's  all  covered  with  scars  and  marks,  and  accordin'  to  his 
story,  and  that's  true  enough,  I  don't  doubt,  there's  not  a 
worse  treated  nigger  in  the  whole  South  than  he  was.  He 
wouldn't  have  run  off,  I  guess,  if  he  hadn't  been  desperate  with 
bad  usage.  I  expect  Lafitte  '11  be  the  death  of  him  when  he 
gets  him  again." 

"  That's  his  lookout,"  said  the  merchant,  calmly.  "  If  La 
fitte  chooses  to  maltreat  his  own  property,  there's  no  one  the 
loser  by  it  but  himself." 

At  this  moment  Michael  appeared  at  the  library  door  with 
the  announcement  that  dinner  was  served.  The  merchant 
rose,  and  Bangham  took  his  straw  hat  from  the  table  and  rose 
also. 

"  I'll  see  you  to-morrow,  captain,"  said  Mr.  Atkins.  "  In 
the  meantime,  keep  that  fellow  in  limbo,  and  we'll  arrange  for 
his  return." 

"All  right,  Mr.  Atkins,"  returned  the  sailor,  lounging  out 
of  the  room,  with  a  relieved  mind. 

Mr.  Atkins  followed  him  down-stairs  to  the  hall-door,  and 
then  turned  into  the  drawing-room,  with  a  smiling  counte 
nance. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Lafitte,"  said  this  manly,  humane,  high-souled, 
law-abiding,  patriotic  American  Christian  and  flower  of  mer 
cantile  morality,  addressing  the  gallant  and  chivalrous  son  of 
the  sunny  South,  "  now,  if  you  please,  we  will  go  out  to  din 
ner." 

"  Shall  I  have  the  honor  ?"  said  Mr.  Lafitte,  rising  and 
offering  his  arm,  with  a  bow,  to  the  hostess. 

She  took  the  offered  arm,  and  they  swept  out  together,  the 
brave  and  the  fair.  Bouquet  de  Caroline  streamed  in  their 
wake,  as  Miss  Atkins,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  her  highly  respect 
able  papa,  wafted  on  after  them.  Millefleurs  and  pomatum 
lent  their  sweetness  to  the  desert  air  of  the  drawing-room,  as 


210  HARRINGTON. 

the  gallant  Horatio  escorted  out  the  lovely  Julia.  Following 
up  the  rear,  in  martial  state,  and  redolent  of  musk  and  mar 
rowfat,  came  haughty  Thomas,  caressing  the  whiskerage  of 
Lord  Charles  Chawles,  and  sniffing  the  rich  o'dor  of  the  din 
ner  from  afar. 

Meanwhile,  low  Antony,  brother  of  Roux,  bought  chattel  of 
Lafitte,  foodless,  filthy,  helpless,  friendless,  despised  and  ac 
cursed,  lay  bound  in  the  dark  and  noisome  hold  of  a  Boston 
vessel — a  negro  with  no  rights  that  a  white  man  is  bound  to 
respect — with  no  rights  that  a  Boston  merchant  might  not, 
and  would  not,  take  away,  all  for  the  good  of  party  and  of 
trade — a  good  which,  as  every  thoughtful  patriot  and  Christ 
ian  will  allow,  is  the  chief  good  of  existence. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

STARTLING     DEVELOPMENTS. 

HARRINGTON  lifted  his  calm  eyebrows  with  some  wonder  at 
the  furious  entrance  of  his  friend,  and  sat  regarding  him  with 
a  firm  mouth  and  steadfast  eyes.  Wentworth,  out  of  breath 
with  the  speed  of  his  course,  and  the  tumult  of  his  emotions, 
had  flung  his  hat  across  the  room,  and  himself  upon  the  sofa, 
and  sat  panting,  with  his  handsome  face  flushed,  and  his  bright 
auburn  curls  damp  with  perspiration. 

"  Well,  Richard,  what's  the  matter  ?"  said  Harrington, 
calmly.  "  Has  the  sky  fallen  ?" 

"  Harrington,  see  here,"  panted  Wentworth,  "  Johnny's 
just  been  up  to  the  studio." 

"  Johnny  ?     Who's  Johnny  ?"  interrupted  Harrington. 

"  Oh,  pshaw  !  Bagasse's  boy,  you  know.  John  Todd," 
fumed  Wentworth,  stopping  to  wipe  his  brow  with  a  white 
handkerchief. 

"  Well.  Is  that  any  reason  for  your  running  yourself  into 
a  pleurisy  ?"  bantered  Harrington. 

"  By  George  !"  exclaimed  the  young  artist,  "  it's  a  reason  for 


HARRINGTON.  211 

my  running  Fernando  Witherlee  into  something  else,  and  that's 
a  broken  neck,  I'm  thinking.  Cursed  rascal ! " 

"  What's  Witherlee  been  up  to  now  ?"  inquired  Harrington, 
with  sudden  interest. 

"  Impudence,"  replied  Wentworth.  "  Impudence  unparal 
leled.  Listen,  Harrington.  John  Todd  says  Witherlee  came 
into  the  fencing-school  this  morning,  and  had  the  atrocious 
impudence — the  abominable — the  infernal n 

Wentworth  stopped,  gasping  with  rage. 

"  0  Muse  of  adjectives,  descend  !"  jocosely  cried  Harrington, 
lifting  his  hand  in  mock-heroic  invocation,  with  his  cheeks 
wrinkled  in  a  rich  smile. 

Wentworth,  thus  prayed  for,  began  to  laugh,  even  in  the 
midst  of  his  fury. 

"Well,  Harrington,"  said  he,  "I  know  it's  foolish  to  get 
excited  about  it,  but  upon  my  word,  Witherlee  behaves  scan 
dalously.  Do  you  know  that  he  has  been  telling  Bagasse  a 
long  rigmarole  about  Muriel  and  Emily,  and  you  and  me. 
Bagasse  !  Now  just  think  of  it  !  Think  of  his  talking  of  two 
ladies  like  those,  and  in  such  a  connection,  and  to  Bagasse  ! 
Yes,  of  all  persons  in  the  world,  to  Bagasse  !" 

Harrington's  color  changed  and  his  face  puckered  with 
amazement,  while  he  nervously  grasped  the  arms  of  his  chair. 

"  Is  Witherlee  possessed  !"  he  ejaculated.  "Why,  I  never 
heard  of  such  conduct.  So  boyish,  so  foolish,  such  an  outrage 
against  the  fitness  of  things  " 

"  And  so  infamously  impudent,"  put  in  Wentworth.  "  It's 
the  impudence  that  strikes  me." 

"Certainly.  It's  impudent,  too,  and  I  don't  wonder  you 
were  moved,"  murmured  Harrington,  slowly,  with  an  absorbed 
air. 

"  Moved  !"  snapped  Wentworth.  "  By  Jupiter,  I  am  moved 
to  give  him  a  sound  horse- whipping,  and  he'll  get  it,  or  my  name's 
not  what  it  is.  Why,  look  at  it,  Harrington.  In  the  first 
place,  Emily's  a  particular  friend  of  his.  Now,  wouldn't  you 
think  that  the  commonest  respect  for  her  would  have  pre 
vented  him  from  bandying  her  name  about  in  conversation  with 
anybody,  much  less  old  Bagasse  ?" 


212  HARRINGTON. 

"  Eureka  !  I  have  it,"  exclaimed  Harrington,  bursting  from 
his  abstraction.  "  That  accounts  for  Bagasse's  remark  about 
the  two  ladies  that  gave  the  violets." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  inquired  Wentworth. 

Harrington  recounted  what  the  fencing-master  had  said  that 
morning. 

"  You  see,  Richard,"  he."  added,  "  that  set  me  wondering  ; 
for  how  did  Bagasse  know  that  ladies  had  given  us  the  violets  ? 
How  did  he  know  but  that  I  had  gathered  them  from  my  own 
yard  ?  Then,  when  I  saw  your  nosegay  in  his  button-hole,  I 
thought  you  must  have  told  him,  and  I  was  astonished  to 
think  that  you  should  choose  the  old  veteran  for  a  confi 
dant." 

"  By  Jupiter,  Harrington,  you  didn't  think  I  would  do  such 
a  thing,"  exclaimed  Wentworth,  reproachfully. 

"  My  dear  Wentworth,  it  was  absurd  in  me,  and  I  beg  your 
pardon,"  returned  Harrington.  "  Certainly,  it  was  not  like 
you  ;  but  then,  somebody  must  have  told  him,  and  how  could 
I  imagine  it  was  Witherlee  ?" 

Wentworth  sat  silent,  t  thinking  with  mounting  rage  of 
Witherlee's  remarks  to  the  fencing-master.  If  he  had  been 
cool  and  thoughtful,  he  might  have  at  least  suspected,  from  the 
sample  he  had  of  the  good  Fernando's  nature,  that  he  was  at 
the  bottom  of  Emily's  alienation  from  himself.  But  Went- 
worth's  vivid  temper  only  threw  gleams  and  flashes  on  things, 
and  what  he  saw,  he  saw  in  salient  points,  without  observing 
their  connections  and  relations. 

"  By  George,  I'll  break  his  neck !"  he  foamed,  stamping  his 
foot  on  the  floor. 

"  Now,  Richard,  keep  cool,"  said  Harrington.  "  You  can 
depend  that  Fernando  has  been  making  mischief  all  round,  and 
let  us  just  track  it  out.  In  the  first  place,  let's  hear  Johnny's 
report  of  what  he  said." 

"  Lord  !  I  can't  tell  you !  it's  gone  from  me,"  fumed  Went 
worth,  running  his  hands  through  his  curls,  as  if  in  search  of 
it.  "  Let's  see.  In  the  first  place,  he  had  some  snob  cri 
ticisms  on  your  coat  ;  which,  he  thinks,  is  not  genteel  enough 
to  entitle  you  to  Muriel's  friendship." 


HAKitlNGTON.  213 

"  Oh,  indeed,"  said  Harrington,  with  grand  good-nature. 
"  Well,  that's  a  trifle,  anyway." 

"  He  said,"  continued  Wentworth,  "  that  you  looked  like  a 
beggarman,  who  had  been  in  the  watch-house  all  night." 

"  Complimentary,"  jeered  Harrington. 

"  Wondered  how  you  had  the  a^urance  to  visit  Miss  East 
man  at  all,  when  your  social  position  was  so  much  beneath 
hers,"  pursued  Wentworth  ;  "and  thought  it  was  very  kind 
in  her  to  permit  you." 

Harrington  burst  into  a  peal  of  hearty  laughter. 

11  Positively,"  he  said,  "  this  is  comic.  The  only  tragic  thing 
about  it  is,  that  all  this  time,  Fernando  has  been  pretending 
that  he  was  the  best  of  friends  to  me." 

"  I  tell  you,  Harrington,"  replied  Wentworth,  "  that  fel 
low's  a  perfect  snake  in  the  grass.  The  next  thing  was  to 
pitch  into  my  personal  appearance." 

"  Yours  !"  exclaimed  Harrington,  laughingly.  /'Why,  Rich 
ard,  you're  the  pink  of  fashion.  You're  D'Orsay  and  Raphael 
Sanzio,  in  one." 

Wentworth  smiled  faintly  ;  too  angry  at  Witherlee  to  be 
much  amused. 

"Nevertheless,"  he  continued,  "Witherlee  poked  his  gibes 
at  me,  too — something  about  the  Anti-Slavery  Bazaar.  Do 
they  sell  clothes  there  ?" 

"  Not  exactly,"  replied  Harrington,  laughing. 

"  Then,  I'm  hanged  if  I  know  what  he  meant  by  that,"  said 
Wentworth. 

"Well,  probably  he  said  you  looked  bizarre  ;  and  Johnny, 
not  knowing  the  word,  mistook  it  for  its  fellow  in  sound,"  re 
marked  Harrington. 

"  That's  it  I'll  bet,"  burst  out  Wentworth,  reddening. 
"  Bizarre  !  The  cursed  snob  I  He  wants  me  to  cut  my 
hair  off,  I  suppose,  and  wear  a  stove-pipe  hat  instead  of 
my  Rubens.  I'll  see  him  hanged  first." 

"  Well,  go  on  Richard,"  said  Harrington.  "  All  this  is  un 
important."  • 

"  Then,"  continued  the  young  artist,  fidgeting  in  his  seat 
like  a  man  who  had  to  deal  with  an  awkward  subject,  and 


214  HARRINGTON. 

looking  very  fixedly  at  the  opposite  wall,  with  his  face  redder 
than  before,  "  then  he  proceeded  to  give  Bagasse  a  sketch  of  us 
two  with  Cupid's  arrows  stuck  in  our  bleeding  hearts — a  re 
gular  Saint  Valentine  picture.  O  bother,  I  won't  report  the 
stuff !  It  makes  me  crawl." 

"  Oh,  go  on,  Richard,  gp  on,"  urged  Harrington. 

"No,  I  won't.  Let  it  go.  Come,  Harrington,  let's  drop 
it.  Upon  my  word,  I  can't  repeat  it,  and  I  won't,"  said 
Wentworth. 

Harrington  saw  that  it  was  no  use  to  urge  him,  and  was 
silent.  The  fact  was,  Wentworth  did  not  like  to  have  Har 
rington  think  of  him  as  the  lover  of  Emily,  and  Witherlee's 
portraiture  of  him  as  such  was  too  faithful  for  exhibition.  No 
man  likes  to  confess  that  he  has  been  jilted  by  a  woman,  as 
Wentworth  thought  he  had  been  by  Emily,  and  to  say  that 
he  had  been  reputed  her  lover  by  Witheiiee  was  certainly  an 
approximation  at  least  to  such  a  confession. 

,  "  Very  well."  remarked  Harrington  after  a  pause,  "  if  you 
don't  care  to  talk  about  it,  let  it  go.  Now,  Richard,  I  want 
you  to  leave  this  matter  to  me.  There's  more  in  it,  I'm  con 
vinced,  than  appears,  and  if  you  make  a  quarrel  with  Fer 
nando  we  shall  never  know  the  whole  of  it.  Just  keep  cool, 
eay  nothing  to  him  of  what  you  have  heard,  and  let  me  track 
the  fox  through  all  his  doublings.  Will  you  promise  ?" 

Wentworth  hesitated,  but  his  own  suspicions  were  roused, 
and  he  felt  the  good  sense  of  Harrington's  proposal. 

"I  agree,  Harrington,"  he  said  at  length.  "  Yes,  I  promise, 
and  I'll  keep  dark." 

"  Good,"  replied  Harrington.  "  I  declare,  Richard,  I  can't 
help  feeling,  in  view  of  the  serious  grandeur  of  life,  that  all 
this  is  pitifully  petty.  These  pigmy  broils  and  imbroglios 
seem  all  the  more  trivial  in  contrast  with  such  scenes  and  pas 
sions  as  I  have  been  in  to-day.  I  wish  we  could  live  only  in 
the  larger  life,  unvexed  by  this  buzz  and  fribble." 

"  What  has  happened  to-day,  Harrington  ?"  asked  Went 
worth. 

Harrington  told  him  briefly  of  the  scene  in  Southac  street, 
omitting  to  mention  what  passed  in  Roux's  house,  lest  it 


HARRINGTON.  215 

should  lead  to  questions  verging  upon  the  secret  which  Emily 
now  shared  with  Muriel,  himself  and  Captain  Fisher. 
.  "  I  wish  I  could  feel  interested  as  you  do  in  these  political 
affairs,"  said  Wentworth,  lightly,  when  Harrington  had  con 
cluded.  "  Somehow,  I  can't  though.  Of  course,  I'm  for 
liberty  in  my  own  quiet  way,  and  I  pity  the  poor  darkeys  and 
all  that,  »but  then  it  doesn't  come  home  to  me  at  all.  I'm  an 
artist  in  the  grain,  I  suppose,  and  art-life  and  matters  connected 
with  it,  leave  me  no  interest  for  other  matters." 

"Ah,  Richard,"  replied  Harrington,  "you  must  outlive 
these  notions.  Art  cannot  thrive  sequestered  from  life.  It 
may  live  in  the  cell,  but  it  will  narrow  and  spire,  and  it  can 
only  branch  and  broaden  into  Shakspearean  greatness  when 
planted  among  the  ways  and  walks  of  men.  No  man  can  be 
a  great  painter,  sculptor,  composer,  poet,  whose  heart  is  not 
deeply  and  warmly  engaged  in  the  life  of  his  own  time.  It  is 
the  lack  of  interest  and  participation  in  human  affairs  which 
makes  our  modern  artists  mere  imitators  and  colorists,  and 
so  much  of  modern  art  weak  and  pallid — a  mere  watery  re 
flection  of  old  models  and  forms  of  beauty." 

"  Come,  now,  that's  heresy?"  said  Wentworth,  laughing. 
"  Talk  of  poets — look  at  Shakspeare.  What  interest  did  he 
take  in  human  affairs  ?  He  kept  the  Globe  Theatre,  studied 
his  part  by  day,  played  it  at  night,  and  wrote  his  dramas  be 
tween  whiles.  That's  the  way  his  years  were  occupied.  What 
participation  had  he  in  Elizabethan  politics  ?  What  in  the 
life  of  his  own  time  ?  Why,  Ulrici  says,  in  substance,  that 
Shakspeare  didn't  care  enough  about  the  politics  of  his  age  to 
have  his  mind  even  colored  by  them.  The  critics  agree  that  a 
more  thorough  aristocrat  or  conservative  never  breathed. 
Jupiter  !  according  to  the  critics,  he  was  a  perfect  despiser  of 
the  common  people,  and  a  man  utterly  without  patriotism  and 
philanthropy."  Your  Verulam  there,  now,"  pursued  Went 
worth,  looking  at  the  statue,  "  was  patriot  and  philanthrope. 
He  toiled  for  his  country  and  wrought  for  '  the  relief  of  the 
human  estate,'  as  he  phrases  it.  But  the  most  powerful  micro 
scope  couldn't  detect  anything  of  that  sort  in  William." 

Harrington  laughed  amusedly. 


216  HARRINGTON. 

"  Now,  look  here,  Richard,"  he  replied.  "  In  the  first  place, 
I  flatly  deny  that  there  is  contempt  for  any  sort  of  people, 
common  or  uncommon,  in  the  Shakspearean  pages.  But  let  that 
pass,  for  what  I  am  going  to  say  will  cover  it  fully.  I  want 
to  call  your  attention  to  the  distinctive  peculiarity — the  unique 
ness — of  the  Shakspearean  creations.  In  the  Shakspearean 
mind  you  have  an  unexampled  union  of  the  subtlest  observation 
and  the  profoundest  reason.  This  author  observed  far  more 
closely  than  even  Thackeray,  and  philosophized  far  more 
greatly  than  even  Plato.  But  this  is  not  all.  He  constructed 
a  series  of  works  which  show  the  principles  of  human  action  as 
they  lie  in  the  nature  of  man,  and  all  the  complex  operation 
of  the  human  passions.  And  more,  he  created  a  number  of 
figures,  which  are  not  characters,  but  types.  That  is  the 
grand  distinctive  Shakspearean  peculiarity.  Nobody  has  done 
that  but  he.  The  Don  Quixote  of  Cervantes  is  a  great  figure, 
but  it  is  not  Shakspearean.  The  Greek  Prometheus,  the 
German  Mephistopheles  are  immense  allegorical  creations,  but 
they  are  not  Shakspearean.  He  alone  has  made  figures 
which  are  types — representative  men  and  women  standing  for 
classes.  In  a  word,  he  alone  has  given  us  in  a  series  of  models 
or  images,  the  Science  of  Human  Nature.  This  it  is  that 
makes  him  solitary,  as  the  power  with  which  it  is  done  makes 
him  supreme,  in  literature." 

"  I  understand/'  said  Wentworth,  "  and  I  agree  ;  but  I 
don't  see  what  you're  driving  at,  mine  ancient." 

"  Wait  a  minute,  and  you  shall  see,"  returned  Harrington. 
"  Bacon  wanted  this  very  thing  done.  Nothing  that  you  can 
do  for  the  elevation  of  the  world,  he  says  substantially,  is  of 
any  value,  unless  this  is  done.  The  radical  defect  in  all 
science  is,  he  says,  that  it  has  not  been  done,  and  he  rates 
Aristotle  sharply  for  not  doing  it.  He  wants  a  work  which 
will  give  us  the  Science  of  Man,  as  he  is,  in  order  that  we  may 
make  him  what  he  ought  to  be — a  work,  he  says,  which  is  to 
contain  the  descriptions  of  the  several  characters  and  tempers 
of  men's  natures  and  dispositions  to  the  end  that  the  precepts 
concerning  the  culture  and  cure  of  the  mind  may  be  concluded 
upon — a  work  which  is  also  to  contain  examples  in  moral  and 


HAKKINGTON.  217 

civil  life.  This  is  what  Bacon  wanted  done,  and  the  author  of 
the  Shakspeare  Drama  did  it.  Bacon's  requirement  is  fulfilled 
exactly  in  the  Shakspeare  Drama.  Even  our  critics  have  got 
hold  of  the  idea  that  the  Science  of  Human  Nature  which  Ba 
con  wanted  is  in  the  Shakspeare  Drama,  and  the  purpose  which 
Bacon  intended  such  a  work  to  accomplish,  is  in  daily  pro 
cess  of  accomplishment  through  the  agency  of  those  plays. 
And  what  is  more,  Bacon  wanted  that  work  to  be  in  the 
form  of  poetry — the  Georgics  of  the  Miud,  he  calls  it,  with 
a  reminiscence  of  Yirgil.  The  poets,  he  says  elsewhere, 
are  the  best  doctors  of  this  knowledge  ;  and  again,  for  the 
expression  of  such  a  purpose,  reason  is  not  so  perspicuous, 
nor  examples  so  apt,  as  the  dramatic  or  poetic  presentation. 
Yery  good.  Bacon  wanted  it  in  poetry,  and  hi  poetry  you 
have  it." 

Wentworth  looked  at  Harrington  steadily,  with  so  curious 
an  amazement  on  his  countenance,  that  Harrington  smiled. 

"  Now,  Richard,  observe,"  he  pursued.  "  The  Shakspeare 
Drama  contains  the  Science  of  Man.  A  Science  of  Man  can 
not  be  formed  accidentally,  or  by  the  mere  spontaneity  of 
genius;  it  involves  design.  The  author  of  the  Shakspeare 
Drama  knew,  therefore,  what  he  was  about ;  and  the  fact  that 
his  figures  have  the  peculiarity  of  being  types,  sufficiently 
proves  it.  Now,  science  is  preparatory  to  art,  and  a  Science 
of  Man  is  a  preparation  for  an  Art  of  Human  Life.  This 
makes  of  your  '  aristocrat '  and  *  conservative '  Shakspeare  a 
Socialist  of  the  most  daring  order — the  largest  innovator  the 
world  has  ever  known." 

"  By  Jupiter  !"  exclaimed  Wentworth,  "  it's  precious  odd 
that  nobody  has  noticed  all  this  before.". 

"  So  it  is,  Richard,"  returned  Harrington,  smiling  good- 
naturedly  at  him.  "  About  as  odd  as  that  Ulrici  should  have 
said  that  Shakspeare  took  no  heed  of  the  politics  of  his  time, 
when  Lear,  Coriolaiius,  and  Julius  Caesar  are  occupied,  under 
the  dramatic  cover,  and  in  the  very  face  of  the  military  despot 
ism  of  the  age,  with  the  broadest  sort  of  political  discussion. 
About  as  odd  as  that  you  should  think  Shakspeare  had  no 
patriotism,  when  the  historical  dramas  so  overflow  with  pas- 

10 


218  HARRINGTON. 

sionate  love  for  England  that  London  theatres,  at  this  day, 
rise  and  roar  to  it  when  Phelps  or  Macready  gives  it  voice 
from  the  stage." 

"  Well,"  said  Wentworth,  reddening  and  laughing,  "  I 
spoke  too  fast,  no  doubt.  Besides,  there's  Brutus — a  splendid 
type  of  the  pure  country-lover.  But  the  philanthropy — 
Where's  that  ?" 

"  So  the  man  who  drew  up  the  Science  of  Human  Nature, 
subtle,  vast,  exact,  complete,  the  inevitable  preliminary  to  the 
relief  of  the  human  estate  that  Bacon  schemed  for,  had  no 
philanthropy,"  bantered  Harrington. 

"That's  you  exactly!"  burst  out  Wentworth,  coloring  again, 
and  laughing.     "  Thunder,  Harrington  !  that's  the  way  you  • 
hook  in  a  fellow.     Of  course,  since  I've  accepted  your  first 
proposition,  the  rest  follows.     Well,  at  all  events,  you  may 
show  philanthropy  as  the  genius  of  the  plan,  but  I'm  hanged  • 
if  you  can  name  a  character  that  has  it  in  the  plays." 

"  Can't  I,  then  ?"  retorted  Harrington,  good-humoredly. 
11  What  do  you  think  of  Lear  ?  Whose  heart  folds  in  poor 
Tom,  the  social  outcast  from  the  lowest  sinks  of  the  Eliza 
bethan  wretchedness  ?  Who  hurls  forth  that  terrible  invoca 
tion  for  the  '  superfluous  and  lust-dieted  man  that  slaves 
Heaven's  ordinance — that  will  not  see  because  he  does  not 
feel  ?'  Who  prays  for  the  '  poor  naked  wretches  that  bide 
the  peltings  of  the  pitiless  storm,'  and  dwells  so  eloquently  on 
'  their  houseless  heads  and  unfed  sides,  their  looped  and  win 
dowed  raggedness.'  Who  is  it,  the  impersonation  of  cold  and 
callous  conservatism,  that  is  made,  as  Burke  says,  to  '  attend 
to  the  neglected  and  remember  the  forgotten/  and-  comes 
face  to  face  with  houseless  poverty  and  want  to  exclaim, 
'  Oh,  I  have  ta'en  too  little  care  of  this  ?'  Who  demands  that 
the  rich  and  fortunate  shall  expose  themselves  to  '  feel  what 
wretches  feel,'  in  order  that  their  superfluities  may  be  shared 
with  them,  and  justice  be  more  the  law  of  social  life  ?  And  if 
this  is  not  philanthropy,  what  is  it  ?" 

"  Say  no  more,  Harrington,  I  cave,"  replied  Wentworth, 
gaily.  * 

"It  is  true,"  pursued  Harrington,   "that  the  Shakspeare 


HARRINGTON.  219 

Drama  has  no  figure  of  a  philanthropist  like  Howard,  no  more 
than  it  has  of  a  religious  saint  like  Xavier  or  Monica.  But 
I  do  not  think  that  such  portraitures  would  consist  with  the 
author's  design,  which,  however  vast,  is  still  special,  having  for 
its  end  the  culture  and  cure  of  the  human  mind,  and,  as  I  have 
said,  the  reconstruction  of  society.  Ah,  but  the  true  philan 
thropist,  the  true  saint  of  that  Drama  is  its  author  !  No  need 
to  add  such  a  figure  to  his  pages  when  he  himself  stands  there 
added  to  them  by  our  thought,  an  image  of  the  noblest  love 
that  ever  strove  and  suffered  for  mankind." 

They  both  sat  in  silence  for  a  few  moments,  lost  in  musing. 

"It  is  strange,"  said  Went  worth,  at  length.  "  All  we 
know  about  Shakspeare  personally,  is  in  conflict  with  what  you 
have  said — though  I  admit  that  his  works  sustain  your  view. 
He  seems  to  have  lived  a  very  common-place  and  vulgar  sort 
of  a  life. .  Certainly,  his  biography  does  not  show  that  he  had 
large  sympathies  and  designs  for  man,  and  it  is  indisputable 
that  he  did  not  participate  in  the  loftier  life  of  his  age ." 

"  I  look  at  it  in  this  way,"  replied  Harrington.  "  Set  aside 
the  evidence  we  might  collect  from  his  writings,  and  consider 
only  what  must  inevitably  have  followed  from  the  nature  of 
his  intellect.  The  complex  catholicity — the  massive  breadth — 
in  a  word,  the  universality  of  his  mind,  inevitably  involves  a 
corresponding  vastness  of  interest  and  participation  in  the 
public  affairs  of  his  time,  and  all  the  varieties  of  its  thought 
and  life.  Isolation  from  public  life  may  coexist,  and  be  per 
fectly  compatible,  with  intensity  of  genius — with  universality, 
never.  Moreover,  to  be  worldly  wise,  as  the  plays  show  their 
author  to  have  been,  a  man  must  follow  the  rule  Bacon  insists 
upon  as  indispensable — namely,  to  ally  contemplation  with 
action.  Deny  such  a  man  experience,  and  you  cannot  get  from 
him  the  lessons  of  experience,  as  you  get  them  from  this  author. 
Isolate  such  a  man  from  affairs,  and  his  genius  spreads  aloft 
into  the  vast  air  of  the  abstract,  and  you  never  get  in  his 
writings  the  voices  of  the  street,  the  camp,  the  court,  the  cabi 
net — in  a  word,  the  voices  of  concrete  practical  life,  as  you  do 
in  the  Shakspeare  Drama.  Take  for  example,  the  man  nearest 
Shakspeare,  the  many-sided  Goethe  :  the  corollary  to  his  many- 


220  HARRINGTON. 

sidedness  is  the  fact  that  he  was  a  man  of  the  world,  a  scientifi- 
cian,  courtier,  statesman.  So  with  the  author  of  the  Drama. 
He  must  have  been  immersed  in  public  life.  He  must  have 
held  office.  He  must  have  administered  the  affairs  of  State. 
It  was  the  inevitable  result  of  his  genius,  and  it  was  the  condi 
tion  on  which  the  manifestations  of  that  genius  depended. 
Denied  public  life,  and  either  his  development  would  have  been 
arrested,  or  he  would  have  become  a  vast  dreamer  or  abstrac 
tionist." 

"  Upon  my  word,  Harrington,"  said  Went  worth,  "  that's 
an  astonishing  thing  for  you  to  say  1" 

"  It's  the  truth,  nevertheless,"  replied  Harrington,  smiling. 

"  But  the  facts  of  Shakspeare's  life  are  against  you,"  re 
joined  Wentworth. 

"  Well,  you  must  reconcile  them  as  you  can,"  said  Harring 
ton.  "  Meanwhile,  there  is  the  indestructible  truth.  All 
history,  all  facts,  all  reason  testify  to  it.  It  is  so." 

"  But  look  here,  Harrington,"  said  the  amazed  Wentworth. 
"  On  the  one  hand,  you  infer  that  a  man  of  Shakspeare's 
genius  must  have  been  a  statesman.  On  the  other  hand,  is 
the  plain  fact  that  Shakspeare  was  nothing  of  the  sort.  Now, 
therefore,  we  must  at  once  conclude  that  your  inference  is 
wrong." 

"Not  necessarily,"  replied  Harrington. 

"  Not  necessarily  ?"  Wentworth  laughed,  and  fixed  his 
eyes  with  a  puzzled  look  upon  the  floor.  "  Well,  I  don't  see 
how  you  can  escape  from  so  obvious  a  conclusion.  Now,  let 
me  state  it  again.  In  the  first  place,  who  wrote  the  plays  ?" 

Receiving  no  answer,  Wentworth  looked  up,  and  saw 
Harrington  gazing  with  rapt  affection  on  the  noble  bust  of 
Yerulam.  For  a  moment  the  young  artist  held  his  breath  in 
utter  stupefaction  ;  then  a  deep  flush  burned  upon  his  face, 
and  he  laughed  immoderately.  Harrington  colored,-  but  took 
his  friend's  merriment,  as  he  took  everything,  good-naturedly, 
and  sat  smiling  at  him. 

"  Bravo  1"  cried  Wentworth,  at  length.  "  Another  sacri 
fice  to  the  idol !  Now,  Harrington,  I  can't  swallow  the  idea, 
that  the  idol  wrote  Shakspeare's  plays,  but,  for  goodness'  sake 


HARRINGTON.  221 

do  publish  it !  It  will  make  such  a  jolly  row.  By  Jupiter  ! 
what  fun  it  will  be  to  see  all  the  steady  old  ink-pots  fizzing 
into  vitriol  bottles,  and  foaming  over  on  to  your  idea  1  Do 
publish  it." 

"  One  of  these  days,  Richard,"  said  Harrington,  gently. 
"  But  I  don't  think  Yerulam  alone  wrote  the  plays.  He  had 
help  from  others — and  some  of  them  came  from  a  lower  order 
of  mind  than  his.  But  in  all  the  great  plays  his  intellect  and 
design  are  visible.  However,  let  it  pass,  and  in  the  meantime, 
say  nothing  about  it  to  any  one,  for  till  it  can  come  with  solid 
proof,  it  will  meet  with  no  favor  from  the  Jedburgh  justice  of 
a  world  .that  hangs  your  thought  first,  and  tries  it  afterward. 
But  for  your  own  sake,  I  wish  you  could  believe  that  this 
great  poet  could  not  have  been  the  poet  he  was,  if  he  had  not 
been  concerned  in  everything  that  concerns  mankind.  Espe 
cially  must  he  have  cherished  the  idea  of  political  liberty,  for 
without  that,  poet  or  artist  can  be  but  little." 

"Upon  my  word,  Harrington,"  said  Wentworth,  "I 
shouldn't  be  much  astonished  if  you  were  to  assert  that  Ihe 
author  of  Shakspeare's  plays,  as  you  call  him,  would  be,  if 
he  was  alive,  a  Garrisonian  Abolitionist." 

"  Well,"  replied  Harrington,  laughing  in  his  beard,  "  you 
know  Montaigne  says  a  man's  books  are  his  children,  and  I'm 
sure  this  author's  children  don't  vote  with  the  Webster  Whigs 
or  go  union-saving  or  kidnapping  with  either  Whigs  or  Demo 
crats.  And  as  for  Shakspeare  being  a  Garrisonian,  it's  quite 
clear  to  my  perverted  sense,  that  the  man  who  makes  his 
patriot,  Brutus,  cry  aloud,  as  the  first  demand  of  political 
justice,  '  Liberty,  Freedom,  and  Enfranchisement,'  would  not, 
at  any  rate,  if  he  were  with  us,  be  found  in  Mr.  Ben  Hallett's 
party." 

Wentworth,  touched  at  the  idea  of  Shakspeare  and  Ben 
Hallett  being  by  any  chance  thrown  together,  laughed  immo 
derately,  while  Harrington,  highly  amused  at  his  mirth,  sat 
and  smiled  at  him.  , 

"  Harrington,"  said  Wentworth,  recovering  from  his  merri 
ment,  "  you  almost  tempt  me  to  extend  my  studio  among 
the  sons  of  men." 


222  HARRINGTON. 

"  That's  where  the  great  artists  extended  theirs,"  replied 
Harrington.  "  Raphael,  Giotto,  Cellini,  Angelo,  all  those 
superb  artists,  were  politicians,  country-lovers,  friends  and  com 
rades  of  their  kind.  Their  human  sympathies  gave  their  genius 
its  pulse  of  life.  You  young  artists  ought  to  blush  when  you 
think  of  Michael  Angelo." 

"  Well,  Michael  was  a  trump,"  returned  Wentworth,  gaily. 

"  A  trump  ?"  repeated  Harrington.  "  I  wish  he  was  a 
trump  that  could  sound  some  of  you  fellows  into  life.  Yes, 
there  was  a  man  behind  the  artist  in  Michael,  and  his.  works 
are  cryptic  with  his  htimanity.  By  the  way,  Richard,  how 
comes  on  the  '  Death  of  Attucks  ?' " 

The  "  Death  of  Attucks  "  was  a  picture  which  Wentworth, 
instigated  by  Harrington,  had  begun  to  paint  in  illustration  of 
the  picturesque  scene  on  that  wild  March  night  of  the  early 
Revolution,  when  a  black  man  flung  himself  on  the  bayonets 
for  a  country  which  enslaves  his  race,  and  has  scribes  to  defile 
his  memory. 

"  Well,"  replied  Wentworth,  with  a  look  of  momentary 
sadness,  "  I  haven't  painted  much  lately — so  the  picture  stands. 
O  me,"  he  sighed,  "I  see  intellectually  the  truth  of  all  you 
say  about  the  relation  of  liberty  to  art,  but  somehow  I  don't 
get  kindled." 

"  Look  here,  Richard,"  said  Harrington,  "  you  ought  to 
hear  Wendell  Phillips." 

"  So  I  ought,"  answered  Wentworth,  "  and  I  mean  to  some 
time." 

"  You  must,"  replied  Harrington.  "  He  will  show  you  the 
ideal  beauty  of  anti-slavery.  Many  a  young  man  has  found 
his  eloquence  the  golden  door  to  a  life  for  liberty.  Now  Muriel 
has  planned  to  go  to  the  Convention  to-night,  and  you  are  to 
go  with  us,  and  I  hope  you  will  hear  him. 

••"  Who  are  going  ?"  asked  Wentworth. 

"  We  four,"  replied  Harrington. 

"  YOU  three,"  responded  Wentworth ";  "  I  won't  go." 

"  Oh,  but  you  must,"  replied  Harrington.  "  I  promised  to 
bring  you  there  to  tea,  and  my  word  is  at  stake." 

Wentworth  was  silent,  and  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 


HARBIN  GTON.  22/5 

floor,  and  his  face  reluctant  and  uneasy.  Harrington  watched 
him,  and  felt  that  there  was  some  reason  connected  with  either 
Muriel  or  Emily  for  his  desire  to  avoid  going  to  Temple  street 
that  evening.  Suddenly  the  story  Witherlee  had  told  him 
about  Wentworth  and  Muriel  flashed  into  his  memory,  and 
with  it  came  the  sharp  suspicion  that  Witherlee  had  lied. 
Could  it  be,  after  all,  that  Wentworth  and  Emily  were  lovers  ? 
Harrington's  heart  trembled,  and  he  determined  to  question 
Wentworth  on  the  spot. 

"  Richard,"  said  he,  "why  are  you  averse  to  going  up  to 
Temple  street  this  evening  ?  Is  it  on  account  of  anything  in 
this  talk  of  Fernando's  which  John  Todd  told  you  ?" 

'  "  Oh,  no,"  replied  Wentworth,  coloring.     "  I  don't  care — 
I'll  go  since  you  desire  it." 

"  Richard,"  said  Harrington,  after  an  awkward  pause,  "  par 
don  my  rudeness,  but  I  want  to  ask  you  a  frank  question,  and 
I  have  a  reason  for  asking  it.  Are  you.  in — well,  have  you,  as 
Witherlee  said,  one  of  Cupid's  arrows  in  your  bleeding  heart  ?" 

Harrington  tossed  out  the  question  gaily,  but  with  a  flushed 
face,  and  his  heart  beating.  As  for  Wentworth  he  was  scarlet 
to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  and  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor, 
toyed  with  his  moustache  in  great  confusion. 

fl  Oh,  that  wasn't  Witherlee's  phrase,"  he  stammered  eva 
sively.  "  That  was  my  way  of  reporting  what  he  said." 

"  Well,"  returned  Harrington,  "  but  is  it  true  or  not  ?" 

Wentworth  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"  Suppose  it  is  true.     What  then  ?"  was  his  answer. 

"  It  is  true,  then  ?"  faltered  Harrington. 

Wentworth  was  still  for  a  moment,  then  nodded  affirma 
tively. 

"  Good  !"  exclaimed  Harrington.  "  Richard,  I  give  you  joy. 
But  now  tell  me — pardon  my  inquisitiveness — tell  me  which  is 
the  one  ?" 

Wentworth  felt  himself  in  a  corner,  and  with  his  face  hot  as 
fire,  and  his  heart  throbbing  furiously,  cast  desperately  about 
for  some  evasive  answer. 

"  Is  it  Emily  ?"  said  Harrington  hastily,  in  a  voice  which  he 
could  not  keep  from  trembling. 


224:  HARRINGTON. 

Wentworth  instantly  took  the  tone  as  evidence  of  Harring 
ton's  love  for  Miss  Ames,  and  with  a  bitter  feeling  filling  his 
heart  as  the  sense  of  the  injury  she  had  done  him,  swept  over 
him,  he  became  self-possessed  and  cold. 

"  Emily  I"  he  repeated,  affecting  surprise  and  looking  at 
Harrington's  flushed  face  with  desperate  placidity,  while  a 
faint  smile  curved  his  proud  lip.  "  Indeed,  Harrington,  none 
of  Emily's  lovers  have  a  rival  in  me." 

The  answer  was  at  once  a  taunt  and  an  evasion,  but  to  Har 
rington  it  seemed  decisive,  and  spoken  in  plain  good-faith.  It 
fell  upon  him  like  a  death-blow,  but  his  heart,  mailed  in  mag 
nanimity,  rose  from  under  it,  and  he  forced  himself  to  smile, 
lest  Wentworth  should  be  pained  by  perceiving  that  it  gave 
him  pain.  As  yet,  Wentworth  had  not  the  least  idea  that  his 
friend  loved  Muriel..  And,  as  yet,  he  did  not  perceive  that  he 
had  just  given  Harrington  to  understand  that  he  himself  was 
her  lover. 

So,  thought  Harrington,  Witherlee  told  the  truth  after  all, 
and  I  was  not  mistaken. 

"  Richard,"  he  cried,  springing  from  his  seat,  and  crossing 
over  to  Wentworth,  who  instantly  rose,  startled  by  his  sudden 
movement,  as  well  as  by  the  strange  emotion  which  struggled 
with  a  smile  in  his  lit  face.  "  Richard,  I  give  you  joy.  I  do 
with  all  my  heart  and  soul.  You  should  have  told  me  before, 
that  I  might  sooner  have  been  happy  in  your  happiness.  But 
I  am  glad  to  know  it  now — from  your  own  lips,  for  I  knew  it, 
or  all  but  knew  it,  before.  My  love  and  blessing  on  you  both 
forever !" 

All  this  poured  forth  impetuously,  his  hands  grasping  Went- 
worth's,  his  features  convulsed  and  smiling,  his  kind  eyes  shin 
ing  through  tears.  An  awful  feeling  swept  down,  like  an 
avalanche,  on  Wentworth.  Petrified  with  the  suddenness  of 
the  revelation,  he  not  only  saw  that  he  had  inadvertently  con 
fessed  himself  Muriel's  lover,  but  he  saw  that  Harrington  loved 
her  !  He  strove  to  speak,  but  his  lips  refused  their  office,  and 
no  form  of  words  came  to  his  whirling  mind.  Harrington  saw 
his  pallor  and  agitation,  and  mistaking  them  for  the  signs  of  a 
young  lover's  emotion  at  being  thus  brusquely  congratulated, 


HAEKINGTON.  225 

wrung  his  hands  once  more,  and  turned  away.  Wentworth, 
too  much  overwhelmed  to  even  think,  sank  down  upon  his  seat, 
and  leaning-  his  arm  on  the  back  of  the  sofa,  covered  his  hot 
eyes  with  his  hand. 

At  that  moment  a  low,  piteous  whine  was  heard  in  the  yard. 
Harrington  started  and  colored  and  went  out  instantly. 

Wentworth,  meanwhile,  hearing  the  noise,  and  aware  of  his 
friend's  exit,  took  no  heed  of  either,  but  sat  trying  to  compose 
his  mind  to  think  of  the  new  complication  in  which  he  found 
himself. 

Presently  the  deep  sense  of  Harrington's  splendid  magnani 
mity  in  so  joyfully  giving  up  the  woman  he  loved,  rose  upon 
him  in  contrast  with  his  own  passionate  envy  and  jealousy 
when  he  thought  him  the  lover  of  Emily,  and  with  the  tears 
springing  to  his  eyes,  he  felt  as  if  he  were  the  meanest  man 
that  ever  breathed.  To  go  and  fling  his  arms  around  Har 
rington,  ask  his  forgiveness,  and  explain  the  whole  matter, 
was  his  first  impulse.  Then  came  the  consideration  that  in 
doing  this,  he  must  own  that  he  loved  Emily,  for  had  he  not 
said  that  he  was  in  love  with  one  ?  and  he  must  own  that  she 
had  played  the  coquette  with  him,  and  left  him  with  a  wounded 
heart.  He  could  not  do  it.  Pride  forbade  it.  But  what 
should  he  do  ?  He  could  not  leave  Harrington  in  error,  and 
such  an  error  !  Yet  how  explain  that  loving  one  of  the  two, 
he  did  not  love  Muriel,  nor  yet  Emily.  Altogether,  Went 
worth  was  in  a  dilemma  1 

Yainly  revolving  the  matter  for  a  few  moments,  he  finally 
came  to  the  desperate  resolution  so  say  nothing  at  present, 
but  wait  until  he  could  be  alone,  and  then  think  what  course 
he  could  pursue  to  extricate  himself  from  this  embroilment. 

The  clear  remembrance  came  to  his  mind  how  sedulously 
Emily  had  been  wooing  Harrington  of  late.  Acquitting  him 
now  of  all  knowledge  or  blame  in  this  respect,  his  censure  ga- 
t  leered  into  a  fiercer  focus  on  her.  It  was  plain  that,  having 
•  played  the  heartless  coquette  with  him,  she  was  trying  the 
same  game  on  his  friend.  A  regular  Lady  Clara  Vere  de 
Vere,  he  thought,  remembering  the  haughty  beauty  dowered 
with  manly  scorn  in  Tennyson's  poem.  Fiery  rage  at  Emily 

10* 


226  HARRINGTON. 

contended  in  his  soul  with  fiery  love  for  her.  Gnashing  his 
teeth  with  fury,  scorning  himself  that  he  could  love  her 
and  she  so  false  and  base,  scorning  himself  that  he  could  hate 
her  when  he  so  loved  her,  he  walked  up  and  down  the  room 
for  a  minute  or  two  ;  then  suddenly,  with  a  violent  effort, 
grew  cool,  and  picking. up  his  hat*  from  the  floor,  went  out 
into  the  yard. 

He  did  not  see  Harrington  at  first,  but  stepping  around  the 
corner  of  the  house,  he  caught  sight  of  him,  and  all  his  pas 
sionate  agitation  faded  away  in  surprise  as  he  became  aware 
of  his  friend's  occupation.  Harrington  was  stooping  down  in 
an  angle  of  the  garden  near  a  large  square  box  set  on  end, 
rubbing  away  with  a  gloved  hand  at  the  back  of  an  old,  weak, 
white  dog,  the  same  Wentworth  had  seen  tormented  in  the 
street  that  morning.  Actually,  thought  Wentworth,  he  went 
back  to  take  that  forsaken  brute  home  with  him  1 

"  What  in  thunder  are  you  doing,  Harrington  ?"  he  ex 
claimed,  approaching  the  scene  of  his  friend's  operations. 

Harrington  started,  and  turned  his  glowing  face  with  a  half 
ashamed  smile  upon  Wentworth,  then  continued  to  rub  the 
dog's  back. 

"  I  couldn't  leave  the  poor  old  fellow  in  such  a  plight,  Rich 
ard,"  he  remarked,  in  an  apologetic  tone,  "  so,  you  see,  I  took 
him  in." 

"  Why,  he's  got  the  mange,"  said  Wentworth,  eying  the 
animal  with  a  face  of  mingled  disgust  and  curiosity. 

"  That's  not  his  fault/'  returned  Harrington,  coolly,  dipping 
his  gloved  hand  into  a  box  of  what  appeared  to  be  powdered 
sulphur,  sprinkling  a  handful  on  the  dog's  back,  and  rubbing 
it  in. 

The  dog,  meanwhile,  lying  on  the  ground,  was  devouring 
with  feeble  content  a  plateful  of  broken  victuals  which  the 
young  man  had  procured  from  the  house.  He  was  a  misera 
ble,  weak,  red-eyed,  flaccid-jawed,  dirty-white  old  mastiff,  and, 
as  the  young  artist  had  observed,  he  had  the  mange.  As 
ugly,  forlorn-looking  and  worthless  a  cur  in  his  life  as  that  dead 
dog  which,  the  old  Mohammedan  apologue  says,  the  Jewish 
mob  derided  in  the  streets  of  Jerusalem,  when  a  tail,  stranger 


HAEEINGTON.  227 

of  grave  and  sweet  aspect  drew  near,  and  paused  to  cast  a 
look  of  compassion  on  the  object  of  their  derision.  "  Is  it  not 
a  miracle  of  ugliness  !"  jeered  the  crowd.  "  But  see,"  said  the 
stranger,  "pearls  are  not  equal  to  the  whiteness  of  his  teeth  !" 
And  then,  says  the  Mohammedan  story,  the  people  knew  that 
the  stranger  was  the  great  prophet  Jesus,  for  none  but  he 
would  look  upon  a  dead  dog  with  the  beauty-seeing  eye  of  love. 

"  Poor  old  fellow,"  soliloquized  Harrington,  "  I  quite  forgot 
I  had  him,  till  he  whined  for  his  dinner." 

"  How  confoundedly  dirty  he  is,"  observed  Wentworth. 

"  Dirty  ?  Oh,  no — that's  his  color,"  said  Harrington, 
naively.  "  He's  not  dirty  now,  for  I  washed  him." 

"  The  deuce  you  did  1"  replied  Wentworth,  laughing. 
"  Upon  my  word,  Harrington,  you're  a  regular  Brahmin. 
Though  it's  mighty  good  in  you  to  take  so  much  trouble  for  a 
brute  like  that.  Faith,  I'd  have  left  him  to  his  fate." 

"  Oh,  well,"  replied  Harrington,  tranquilly,  scanning  the 
dog's  back,  to  see  if  any  diseased  spot  had  escaped  him,  "  the 
poor  old  thing  has  something  to  do  in  this  world,  or  he 
wouldn't  have  been  sent,  and  he  has  a  right  here,  seeing  that 
he  does  no  harm.  There,  I  guess  that'll  do,  and  he'll  be 
comfortable  till  I  get  back." 

He  took  off  his  glove,  patted  the  old  dog  on  the  head,  and 
spoke  to  him.  The  animal,  who  had  finished  his  dinner, 
feebly  wagged  his  tail,  and  licked  the  kind  hand,  then  looked 
up  with  bleared  red  eyes  into  the  face  of  his  protector,  still 
wagging  his  tail. 

"  Good,"  said  Harrington  ;  "  see  how  grateful  he  is  ! 
Come,  Wentworth,  it's  tune  for  us  to  go,"  he  continued, 
rising  to  his  feet.  "  It's  after  four  o'clock,  and  I  promised  to 
be  there  early." 

Stooping  again,  he  lifted  the  dog  into  the  packing-case  on 
some  old  rags  of  carpeting,  put  a  pan  of  water  near  him,  laid 
the  tin  box  of  sulphur  and  the  glove  on  top,  and  turned  away 
to  the  house. 

"What  a  good  fellow  Harrington  is,"  muttered  Wentworth, 
following  him.  "To  think  of  his  rescuing  that  old  brute  from 
the  boys,  and  taking  as  much  care  of  him  as  if  he  was  Scott's 


228  HARRINGTON. 

Maida  !     I  wonder  that  I,  who  admire  such  things  so  much, 
never  think  of  doing  such  things." 

He  got  into  the  room  just  as  Harrington  was  disappear 
ing  up  the  flight  of  steps  into  the  room  above,  whither  he 
went  to  wash  his  hands  and  brush  his  clothes.  In  a  few 
minutes  he  descended  again,  closed  the  windows,  put  on  his 
slouched  hat,  and  they  set  off  together  arm  in  arm. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

THE    FAIRY    PRINCE. 

THEY  arrived  in  a  few  minutes  at  the  house  in  Temple 
street,  and  were  let  in  by  Patrick.  Wentworth  had  been 
complaining  that  something  was  hurting  his  foot,  and  sat  down 
in  the  hall  to  take  off  his  boot  and  see  what  was  the  matter, 
while  Harrington  went  up-stairs  into  the  library. 

The  jewel  of  the  rich  room  was  Muriel,  and  Muriel  lay  on  a 
velvet  couch,  asleep.  The  young  man  noiselessly  approached 
her,  and  stood  tenderly  watching  her  beauty  in  its  repose. 
She  lay  in  a  glimmer  of  light  from  the  western  window,  and 
the  faint  radiance  lit  her  dreamful  face,  whose  beauty  was  like 
a  hymn  of  immortal  joy.  The  draped  arms  lay  restfully  along 
her  form,  with  the  white  hands  lightly  clasped  together,  and 
the  expression  of  the  figure  was  repose.  Gazing  at  her  with 
heavenly  sadness,  the  lover  saw  her  countenance  gleam  with 
an  evanescent  smile,  and  the  lips  murmured  a  word.  It  was 
"Richard."  A  quick  pang  shot  to  his  heart,  and  at  the  same 
instant  Muriel  started  and  awoke. 

"  John  !"  she  exclaimed,  coloring  and  smiling  as  she  sprang 
up  from  her  light  sleep  and  gave  him  her  hands,  "  you  here  ! 
When  did  you  come  ?" 

"  Just  come/'  he  replied,  holding  her  hands,  and  smiling 
into  her  face.  "Why,  Muriel,  you  looked  like*  the  Sleeping 
Beauty  of  the  fairy  tale." 


HARRINGTON.  229 

"  Oh,  John  !  And  you  like  the  fairy  prince  that  woke  the 
Sleeping  Beauty  up  I"  returned  Muriel,  gaily. 

"  That's  a  compliment,  I  suppose,"  said  Harrington. 

"  Compliment  for  compliment,"  said  she. 

"  Oh,  but  mine  was  the  truth,"  he  replied. 

"  And  so  was  mine,"  she  answered.  "  So  it's  arranged  that 
I  am  the  Sleeping  Beauty  awakened,  and  you  the  fairy  prince 
that  awakened  me,  and  now  I  shall  have  to  follow  you  through 
all  the  world,  as  she  did  hini  in  Tennyson's  poem." 

Harrington's  color  rose,  and  he  dropped  her  hands.  Muriel 
blushed  too,  for  she  felt  that  what  she  had  said  in  thoughtless 
play  had  carried  some  deeper  sense  to  him  than  she  had  in 
tended. 

"  Pardon  me,  John,"  she  murmured,  "  I  did  not  mean  to 
offend  you." 

"  You  offend  me  !"  exclaimed  Harrington,  in  astonishment. 
"  You,  Muriel  !  Indeed,  no." 

"  Then  why  did  you  color  ?"  she  asked  archly,  reassured 

"  I  ?     Oh — no  matter.     I  was  thinking  of  something." 

"  Of  what  ?  Come  now.  Be  frank,  John.  I  desire — I 
command  " 

Harrington  looked  confused  for  a  moment.  An  impulse 
came  to  him. 

"It  is  you  who  must  tell  me,  Muriel,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  I  ?  What  shall  I  tell  you,  John.  I  will  tell  you  any 
thing  you  ask." 

"  Tell  me  then  of  the  fairy  prince  who  awakened  you  in 
deed,  and  whom  you  are  to  follow  through  all  the  world. 
Tell  me  of  him,  that  I  may  congratulate  you  and  him  to 
gether." 

Muriel  gazed  at  him  in  wonder.  If  he  had  not  spoken 
with  such  sweet  seriousness,  she  would  have  thought  he  was 
jesting. 

"  You  said  you  would  tell  me  anything  I  asked,"  said  Har 
rington,  gravely.  "  Tell  me  this,  then." 

"  I  will,  John,"  she  replied  slowly.  "  I  will  tell  you  of  him 
— when  I  find  him.  Not  till  then." 


230  HARRINGTON. 

She  turned  away,  musing.  It  was  Harringtonrs  turn  now 
to  look  at  her  with  wonder.  What  did  she  mean  ?  He  had 
never  seen  any  tokens  of  duplicity  in  her,  but  what  was 
this? 

Just  then  in  came  Wentworth,  smiling.  Harrington  saw 
her  face  light  as  she  went  toward  him,  and  wondered  if  she 
had  understood  what  he  had  said  to  her.  That's  it,  he 
thought  ;  she  could  not  have  understood  me. 

"  Ha,  Muriel.  Good  afternoon,"  burst  out  Wentworth  in 
his  airy  way.  "  Excuse  me  for  not  coming  up  at  once,  but  I 
was  ransacking  my  boot.  And  see  what  I  found.  A  dam 
son  stone.  Take  it,  Harrington,  and  be  happy."  . 

"  Come,  no  nonsense,  Richard,"  said  Muriel.  "  Let's  go  up 
to  the  studio,  and  fence." 

Wentworth  darted  at  her,  and  she  nimbly  dodged  him, 
flashed  out  of  the  room  and  flew  up-stairs,  laughing,  followed 
by  the  young  artist  on  the  run.  She  vanished  into  the  studio 
before  he  could  come  up  with  her,  and  Wentworth  turned  to 
wait  for  his  friend,  who  was  leisurely  ascending  the  stairs. 

"  Lightfoot  cannot  outrun  Atalanta,"  said  Harrington. 

"  Exactly  so,"  returned  Wentworth. 

They  went  up  and  into  the  studio,  as  it  was  called,  together. 
It  was  a  large?  square,  sunlit  room,  the  floor  covered  with  a 
thick,  hard  carpet,  and  it  had  two  windows  looking  to  the 
west,  with  boxes  on  the  sills,  filled  with  heliotrope  and 
mignionette,  which  filled  the  air  with  their  rich  and  delicate 
fragrance.  Muriel's  table,  with  a  small  easel,  cases  of  water- 
colors,  and  bristol-board,  drawing  paper,  tinted  sketches,  and 
other  artistic  paraphernalia,  stood  near  one  of  the  windows. 
Not  far  from  the  other  was  a  moulding  stand,  on  which  stood 
Emily's  bust  of  her  friend,  with  a  box  of  clay  on  the  floor  near 
it.  The  walls  were  a  warm  grey,  and  ornamented  with  three 
or  four  of  Jullien's  crayons,  some  plaster  medallions  and  bas- 
reliefs,  and  a  set  of  hanging-shelves  filled  with  books.  Parallel- 
bars  on  one  side  of  the  room,  a  pair  of  large  dumb-bells  on  the 
floor,  several  iron  weights,  with  rings  for  lifting  them,  near  by, 
and  a  set  of  gilded  foils  and  masks  on  the  wall,  gave  the  studio 
something  of  the  air  of  a  gymnasium.  A  small  piano,  with 


HAEEINGTON.  231 

books  of  music  upon  it,  a  low  sofa,  and  a  few  plain  arm-chairs, 
completed  the  furniture  of  the  apartment. 

The  young  men  had  sat  talking  a  few  minutes,  waiting 
for  Muriel,  when  Mrs.  Eastman  and  Emily  came  in,  and  they 
rose  again  to  make  their  salutations.  Emily  was  in  her  most 
sumptuous  mood,  and  smiled  serenely  as  she  entered  and  curt 
seyed  down  into  a  chair.  Mrs.  Eastman  gave  her  hand  to  the 
young  men,  whom  she  loved  as  much  as  if  they  were  her  own 
sons,  and  standing  near  Harrington,  with  her  arm  in  his,  affec 
tionately  asked  for  his  health. 

'*  You  are  looking  pale,  John,"  she  said,  with  motherly  solici 
tude.  "  Too  much  study  I'm  afraid." 

"  Not  at  all,  mother,"  said  Harrington,  gaily — he  always 
called  Mrs.  Eastman  "  mother."  "  Celestial  pale,  the  student's 
proper  hue,  you  know  ;  and  spite  of  my  paleness,  Fm  strong 
and  well." 

"  Nevertheless,  I  wish  you  had  some  of  Richard's  roses," 
she  said  playfully. 

"  My  roses,  indeed  1"  rattled  Wentworth.  "  Why,  Mrs. 
Eastman,  I'm  so  much  in  love  with  Harrington's  intellectual 
pallor  that  I'm  thinking  of  trying  some  of  Jules  Hauel's  lily- 
white  cosmetic  to  get  my  face  of  the  same  tint.  For  what  is 
— hurrah  !  Here  comes  the  fairy  prince  1"  he  cried,  breaking 
off,  as  the  door  of  a  chamber  adjoining  the  studio  opened,  and 
a  beautiful  and  brilliant  figure  came  forward  into  the  room. 

It  was  Muriel,  transformed  by  the  vivid  and  gorgeous  dress 
of  a  fairy  prince — such  a  dress  as  the  artists  of  fairy  books 
give  to  Percinet  or  Valentine  ;  and  in  it  she  was  courtly  and 
noble  as  Shakspeare's  Rosalind,  when  Rosalind  wore  "  man's 
apparel"  in  the  gay  greenwood  of  Arden.  A  year  before 
when  she  had  resolved  to  take  fencing  lessons  of  Harrington, 
she  had  devised  this  dress,  and  with  a  woman's  natural  dispo 
sition  to  ornamentation,  and  with  her  own  special  wish  to 
throw  festal  grace  and  the  hues  of  romance  even  on  her  hours 
of  exercise,  she  had  brought  to  the  fashioning  of  her  attire  all 
the  richness  of  her  lavish  fancy.  To  wear  anything  that  was 
ugly  even  at  her  gymnastics,  or  to  make  her  exercise  a  sober 
business  and  not  a  poetic  pleasure,  was  quite  impossible  for 


232  HARRINGTON. 

Muriel.  She  must  clothe  her  muscularities  with  beauty,  as 
Harmodius  wreathed  his  sword  with  myrtle.  So  she  gilded 
her  foils  and  masks,  and  fashioned  her  garb  in  fairy  magnifi 
cence.  The  dress  was  a  cymar  of  vivid  crimson  silk,  loosely 
belted  at  the  waist,  and  adorned  with  broidered  arabesques  of 
gold.  The  bodice,  cut  loose  to  the  form,  with  large  sleeves, 
ruffled  with  lace  at  the  wrists,  had  a  frilled  ruffle  of  lace  emerg 
ing  from  the  bosom,  and  rising  in  a  sort  of  fraise  around  the 
neck,  in  exquisite  keeping  with  the  refined  beauty  of  the  coun 
tenance  which  bloomed  above  it.  A  little  crimson  cap,  with  a 
thick,  swailing,  white  plume,  rested  lightly  on  the  head,  and 
the  glorious  amber  hair  was  arranged  to  lie  on  the  back  of  the 
neck  like  the  locks  of  a  page.  The  skirt  of  the  dress,  also  of  crim 
son  silk,  broidered  with  golden  arabesques,  and  deeply  bordered 
with  heavy,  gold  fringe,  fell  in  graceful  folds,  ending  just  above 
the  knee,  and  white  silk  hose,  with  crimson  satin  slippers,  com 
pleted  the  poetic  and  splendid  costume.  Never  had  Muriel 
appeared  more  fascinating  than  in  this  attire,  which  showed 
the  full  perfection  of  a  form,  straight,  supple,  tall  and  strong, 
whose  every  rounded  outline  was  elegance,  and  whose  free 
strength  was  harmonized  in  grace  and  beauty. 

"  By  Jupiter  !"  cried  Wentworth,  "  I  never  see  Muriel  in 
that  costume,  without  thinking  that  the  long  skirts  are  a  tre 
mendous  shame.  There's  a  figure  for  you  I" 

"  Yes,  but  please  remember,"  said  Emily,  "  that  there  are 
some  of  us  women  who  are  not  endowed  with  such  fine  forms 
as  Muriel." 

"  Oh,  I'm  pretty  well,"  said  Muriel,  with  a  light  langh. 
"  But  it's  mainly  due  to  my  life-long  muscular  exercise, 
Emily." 

"  Indeed,  Muriel,"  replied  Emily,  "  nature  must  have  con 
tributed  largely  in  the  first  instance,  to  a  form  like  yours." 

"Thanks  for  compliments,"  said  Muriel  gaily,  doffing  her 
plumed  cap  and  bowing. 

"  You're  inclined  to  underrate  muscular  exercise,  Emily," 
said  Harrington,  laughing. 

"  Well,  perhaps  so,  John,"  she  replied,  with  a  slow  smile. 

"  And  yet,"  he  pursued,  "  I'm  not  sure,  that  to  make  women 


HAEEINGTON.  233 

a  race  of  gymnasts,  wouldn't  be  one  of  the  surest  ways  of  se 
curing  their  social  enfranchisement." 

"Why,  John,"  returned  Emily,  laughing,  "do  you  want  to 
make  us  athletic  enough  to  get  our  rights  by  the  strong  hand  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  rejoined,  amusedly.  "  But  men  could  not  help 
respecting  women,  if  women  were  on  a  grander  scale,  and  jus 
tice  might  be  born  of  that  respect.  And,  to  make  women  all 
they  latently  are,  gymnastics  are  a  very  important  instrument. 
I  am  inclined  to  think  physical  training  the  foundation  of  all 
noble  culture.  You  get  from  it  health,  strength,  beauty  of 
form,  grace  of  carriage,  dexterity  of  movement  and  action,  a 
very  potent  safeguard  against  all  diseases,  mental  vigor,  cheer 
fulness,  courage,  self-reliance,  a  spirit  that  nourishes  and  pro 
motes  self-respect,  independence,  generosity,  moral  purity, 
heroic  desires,  large  sympathies  ;  in  fact,  all  the  virtues.  I 
do  not  say  that  gymnastics  bestow  the  great  intellectualities 
and  moralities  ;  but  they  encourage,  develop,  and  sustain 
them.  You  know  what  Dr.  Johnson  said— 'a  sick  person  is 
a  scoundrel;'  and  I  think  a  pretty  large  sermon  might  be 
preached  from  that  text,  in  these  days.  At  all  events,  I  am 
quite  sure  that  you  will  see  grander  and  more  womanly  women, 
and  an  increase  of  social  happiness,  when  a  vigorous  muscular 
training  is  made  part  of  women's  culture." 

"  Bravo  !"  cried  Muriel.  "  I  feel  inspired.  The  foils,  E&r- 
rington — the  foils  !" 

Harrington — who  had  been  admiring  while  he  spoke,  the 
free,  beautiful  figure — started  and  went  to  the  wall  to  take  the 
weapons  down. 

"  First,  some  exercise  to  get  the  muscles  in  order,"  said 
Muriel. 

She  threw  down  her  cap,  and  bounding  forward,  with  the 
light  strong  spring  of  a  bayadere,  to  the  parallel  bars,  put  her 
hands  on  the  poles,  and  leaped  up  between  them.  Then,  with 
a  succession  of  springs,  she  traversed  the  whole  length,  leaping 
along  the  bars  on  her  hands  ;  then,  back  again  to  the  centre, 
where  she  swung  to  and  fro  for  an  instant ;  and,  as  she  rose 
again,  vaulted  over  and  alighted  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
tossing  the  air  into  perfume. 


HARRINGTON. 

"  Bravo  !"  cried  Wentworth.  "  That's  religion,  as  Emer 
son  says." 

"  Emerson !"  chided  Mrs.  Eastman,  amusedly.  "  Emerson 
never  said  any  such  thing." 

* '  More  shame  for  him,"  retorted  Wentworth,  gaily.  ' '  Kings- 
ley  says  so,  at  any  rate." 

"  Kingsleyl"  she  replied,  in  the  same  amused,  chiding  tone. 

"  Yes,  ma  mere,"  asserted  Wentworth.  "  That's  what 
Kingsley  calls  muscular  Christianity,  and  I'm  going  in  for  some 
of  it." 

He  bounded  forward  to  the  bars  just  as  Muriel  was  running 
up  to  them  again.  She  stopped  and  stood  a  little  one  side, 
watching  him  as  he  swung  and  leaped  forward. 

"You  don't  do  it  half  as  well  as  Muriel,"  said  Mrs.  East 
man,  very  truly. 

"  Take  care  now,  Richard,  that's  dangerous,"  crie'd  Muriel 
in  a  warning  voice,  as  Wentworth  was  swinging,  preparatory 
to  vaulting  over. 

Wentworth  laughed  recklessly,  and  flung  himself  over  the 
bars.  Muriel's  warning  was  not  without  reason,  for  as  he 
came  over,  his  foot  struck  the  pole,  and,  with  a  cry  from  Emily 
which  proved  her  interest  in  him,  he  pitched  head  downward. 
Muriel  sprang  on  the  instant,  caught  him  with  all  her  strength, 
and  set  him  on  his  feet.  Wentworth  reddened,  and  looked 
dazed. 

"  Careless  boy,"  she  chided,  playfully  giving  him  a  light  cuff 
on  th'e  ear,  "•  you  came  nigh  breaking  your  neck." 

"  That  he-  did,"  exclaimed  Harrington;  and  "  indeed  he  did," 
exclaimed  the  others  in  chorus. 

"Saved  by  a  fairy  prince,"  cried  Wentworth  in  a  mock- 
tragic  tone.  "By  Jupiter,  Muriel,  but  you're  as  strong  as 
you're  quick.  I  wonder  how  many  young  ladies  there  are  in 
the  world  that  could  catch  a  fellow  when  he's  tumbling  over 
neck  and  heels  to  destruction.  Well,  I  guess  I  won't  try  that 
again.  Thank  you,  dear  fairy  prince." 

He  put  her  hand  gallantly  to  his  lips  as  he  said  the  last 
words. 

"  I  declare,"  cried  Emily,  laughing,  "  what  would  society  say 


HARRINGTON. 


235 


if  it  could  behold  these  operations  !  I  can't  help  thinking  how 
our  minister  at  Cambridge,  and  all  my  Episcopal  friends  would 
stare  at  you,  Muriel." 

"Yes,  flower  of  the  world,"  replied  Muriel,  "  we  should  be 
awfully  scandalized,  no  doubt.  But  there's  virtue  in  our 
games,  nevertheless,  for  health  is  there,  and  health  is  a  virtue 
that  beckons  the  others  on.  The  fencing,  however,  is  the  per 
fection  of  exercise." 

"  Why  is  that  so  superior  ?"  asked  Emily. 

"Because  it  develops  bodily  strength  and  activity  more 
harmoniously  than  any  other,"  replied  Muriel.  "  So  Roland 
says." 

"  Roland  ?"  inquired  Emily. 

"  Yes.  Roland  is  the  author  of  the  best  modern  work  on 
fencing,"  answered  Muriel.  "  Stay,  I'll  read  you  what  he  says." 

She  went  to  the  book-shelves,  and  returned  with  the  volume 
— Roland's  "  Theory  and  Practice  of  Fencing." 

"  Here  it  is,"  she  observed,  finding  the  page.  "  Listen  : 
'  Perhaps  there  is  no  exercise  whatever  more  calculated  for 
these  purposes  (developing  and  cultivating  bodily  strength  and 
activity)  than  fencing.  Riding,  walking,  sparring,  wrestling, 
running,  and  pitching  the  bar  are  all  of  them  certainly  highly 
beneficial,  but  beyond  all  question  there  is  no  single  exercise 
which  combines  so  many  advantages  as  fencing.  By  it  the 
muscles  of  every  part  of  the  body  are  brought  into  play;  it 
expands  the  chest  and  occasions  an  equal  distribution  of  the 
blood  and  other  circulating  fluids  through  the  whole  system. 
More  than  one  case  has  fallen  under  the  author's  own  observa 
tion,  in  which  affections  of  the  lungs,  and  a  tendency  to  con 
sumption  have  been  entirely  removed  by  occasional  practice 
with  the  foil;  and  he  can  state,  upon  the  highest  medical 
authority,  that  since  the  institution  of  the  School  of  Arms  at 
Geneva,  scrofula,  which  was  long  lamentably  prevalent  there, 
had  been  gradually  disappearing.' " 

Just  then  a  tap  was  heard  at  the  door.  Muriel  dropped  the 
book,  and  made  one  nimble  spring  through  the  entrance  intc 
her  chamber,  while  Harrington  went  to  the  door.  It  was 
Patrick  come  to  say  that  Mr.  Witherlee  was  down-stairs. 


236  HARRINGTON. 

"  Tell  him  we're  engaged,  Patrick,  and  ask  him  to  excuse 
us,"  rang  the  silver  voice  of  Muriel  through  the  half  open  en 
trance  of  her  room. 

Patrick  departed,  and  as  the  door  closed,  Muriel  emerged, 
laughing,  from  her  hiding-place. 

"  That  was  a  stroke  of  policy,"  she  said.  "  If  Fernando 
were  to  see  me  in  this  costume,  it  would  be  town  talk  to-mor 
row,  and  in  the  papers  the  day  after.  Fernando's  mind  is  a 
perfect  colander — all  that  gets  into  it  runs  out  of  it." 

She  was  more  than  ever  like  a  fairy  prince  the  next  instant 
as  she  stood  with  the  light  bright  foil  in  her  gloved  hand,  and 
her  face  covered  by  the  gilt  mask,  over  which  waved  a  thick 
crimson  plume.  Harrington,  similarly  arrayed,  save  for  the 
plume,  with  the  golden  wires  envisoring  his  features,  advanced 
toward  her. 

"  You  have  not  forgotten  your  plastron,  have  *y°u  ?"  ne 
said. 

"  No  :  it's  under  the  dress,"  she  replied. 

Firm  and  true  as  he,  she  struck  guard,  and  the  foils  crossed 
with  a  clash. 

"  By  George  !  this  is  delicious,"  exclaimed  Wentworth,  in 
perfect  rapture. 

And  so  it  was,  for  Muriel  was  like  some  unimagined  fairy 
chevalier  as  she  stood  in  the  beautiful  attitude  of  the  exercise, 
the  rich  crimson  lights  of  her  dress  glowing,  and  its  golden  or 
naments  tremulously  flashing  in  the  sun-ray,  and  the  sumptuous 
radiance  resting  on  the  proud  and  elegant  flowing  curves  of 
her  figure.  Lithe,  superb  and  strong,  an  image  of  health  and 
grace,  a  form  of  lyric  beauty,  she  might  have  stood  in  her 
armed  posture  for  the  spirit  of  the  foil. 

Emily  had  crossed  over  to  the  piano,  and  sitting  behind  it 
with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  combatants,  began  to  play  a  low 
drumming  strain  of  Bacchic  fury  in  the  pause  preluding  the 
game.  Fierce,  monotonous  and  dreamful,  a  congeries  of 
bass  tones  swarming  grumly  from  the  keys,  with  low  minor 
notes  faintly  chirping  at  intervals  between,  it  suddenly  rang  up, 
pierced  with  one  sharp  tingling  treble,  like  a  cry,  as  with  a 
loud  clash  of  the  foils,  the  agile  and  vivid  figure  of  Muriel 


HARRINGTON.  237 

darted  forward  in  a  superb  lunge.  Harrington  uttered  a  low 
ejaculation,  for  the  thrust  had  nearly  reached  him,  and  he  had 
parried  in  the  compass  of  a  ring.  Muriel  stood  on  guard  again, 
her  gold  and  crimson  tremulously  glowing  and  flashing  in  the 
sun,  and  her  bright  plume  dancing,  while  the  dark  and  furious 
music,  swarming  and  drumming  loudly  from  the  bass  keys, 
sunk  away  into  the  low,  monotonous  and  dreamful  strain,  with 
the  chirping  notes  still  fluttering  and  sounding  in.  It  did  not 
rise  again,  but  ran  sombrely  swarming  on,  as  Harrington 
reached  in  his  long  arm  in  a  quick  and  quiet  lunge,  which  was 
deftly  parried  with  only  a  faint  clink  of  the  foils,  and  then, 
with  another  splendid  flash  of  glitter  and  color,  Muriel  sprang, 
lunging  nimbly  home,  and  clash  on  clash,  with  a  rapturous 
clamor  of  steel,  came  pass  and  parry  on  either  side,  while  the 
hurrying  music  rose  and  rang  in  whirling  riot,  like  a  wild,  tumul 
tuous  race  of  Maenads,  with  heavy  bars  of  thunderous  sound 
striking  through  the  loud,  triumphant  swarming  fury  of  the 
melody.  Clash  and  flash,  amidst  the  strumming  whirl 
and  anvil  blows  of  the  melodious  choral,  flew  the  bright  foils, 
and  stamp  and  tramp,  advancing  and  retreating,  sinking  and 
rising,  low  to  the  lunge,  and  high  to  the  parry,  swayed  and 
darted  the  lords  of  the  fairy  duel' — Muriel's  crimson  feather 
tossing  and  dancing  in  time  to  the  gathering  and  racing  of  the 
music,  like  a  delirious  sprite  of  combat. 

Suddenly — snap — -jingle — the  contest  ceased,  and  the  music 
flittered  off  into  a  light  and  brilliant  strain,  like  the  tinkling 
laughter  of  elves.  Harrington  stood  with  a  dazed  air,  looking 
at  the  fragment  of  the  foil  he  held,  the  rest  of  which  lay  on 
the  floor.  Muriel  broke  into  a  merry  peal  of  laughter,  in 
which  Wentworth  and  her  mother  joined,  while  Emily,  still 
playing,  smiled  indolently  over  the  piano. 

"  Plague  !"  exclaimed  Harrington.  "  That's  the  second 
foil  I've  seen  broken  to-day.  They  make  these  things  misera 
bly  bad." 

"  It's  the  last  pair  we  have,  so  that  ends  our  fun  for  this 
day,"  cried  Muriel,  taking  the  gilt  mask  from  her  bright, 
flushed  face.  "  Serves  me  right  for  not  always  having  half  a 
dozen  sets  on  hand,  a  thing  I'll  do  in  future." 


238  HARRINGTON. 

"  By  Jupiter  !"  exclaimed  Wentworth,  while  Muriel  crossed 
to  hang  up  her  mask  and  foil,  "  that  was  tall  fencing,  while  it 
lasted,  anyhow.  I'm  sorry  the  foil's  broken,  Muriel,  for  I 
wanted  to  fence  with  the  fairy  prince  myself." 

"  You  ought  to  learn,  Emily,"  said  Mrs.  Eastman.  "  Then 
you  and  Richard  could  match  John  and  Muriel." 

Emily  stopped  playing,  and  glanced  at  Wentworth  with  a 
slight  curl  of  her  lip,  which  did  not  escape  the  young  artist. 

"  Indeed,  Mrs.  Eastman,"  she  said,  "  it's  not  in  my  line,  and 
I  should  make  a  poor  figure  at  it,  I  know." 

"  But  it's  as  beautiful  as  dancing,"  said  Mrs.  Eastman. 

"  And  a  great  deal  more  womanly  than  waltzing,"  put  in 
Wentworth,  interrupting,  to  have  his  fling  at  Emily,  who  was 
very  fond  of  the  waltz. 

Emily  reddened,  and  fixed  her  lustrous  eyes  on  Wentworth, 
hurt  and  angered  by  his  remark. 

"  Come,  come,"  interposed  Muriel,  gaily,  "  I  won't  have 
Emily  badgered  into  doing  anything  it  is  not  her  genius  to  do. 
Fencing  is  not  in  her  line,  as  she  says;  but  music,  dear  Emily," 
she  added,  putting  her  arms  around  her  friend,  "music  win 
your  line,  and  charmingly  you  played  for  us.  Your  improvisa 
tion  inspired  our  battle,  and  I  should  fence  twice  as  well  if  I 
always  had  you  to  play  for  me." 

"  Faith,  Emily,  there's  something  in  that,  I  believe,"  re 
marked  Harrington.  "  But  you  fence  wonderfully,  Muriel,  for 
one  who  has  had  only  a  year's  practice." 

"Are  you  sure  you  don't  spare  her,  Harrington?"  said 
Emily,  slily. 

"  Spare  her  ?  Indeed  I  don't.  I'd  scorn  to  do  such  a 
thing  1"  answered  Harrington,  with  animation. 

"  That's  right,  John,"  said  Muriel  in  a  tone  of  gay  grati 
tude  ;  "  it's  always  a  shame  for  a  woman  to  be  treated  like  a 
weak  sister,  and  there's  a  subtle  assumption  of  our  inferiority 
in  the  consideration  we  women  get  from  men  in  this  polite  age, 
which  does  not  please  me  at  all.  No  effeminate  culture  for 
me  !  What  I  know  or  do,  I  will  know  or  do  thoroughly  and 
vigorously,  or  not  at  all." 

;<  Bravo,    Muriel !"  said   Mrs.   Eastman,  rising,   "  so   your 


HARRINGTON.  239 

father  would  say,  if  he  were  with  us.  There's  no  reason,  he 
used  to  observe,  why  girls  shouldn't  be  as  vigorously  trained  as 
boys,  and  even  supposing  woman's  sphere  to  be  purely  and 
simply  that  of  a  wife  and  mother,  said  he,  she  ought,  on  the 
most  ultra  conservative  principles,  to  have  every  power 
and  faculty  fully  developed  that  she  may  fitly  educate  her 
children." 

"  Good  !  Woman's  rights  doctrine,  that,"  said  Went  worth, 
playfully.  "  Muriel,  do  you  vote  ?"  he  added,  with  a  quizzical 
air. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Muriel,  so  naively,  that  Wentworth  was 
taken  aback.  "  Do  you  want  to  know  how  ?  Every  election 
day,  Patrick  comes  to  ask  me  how  he  shall  vote,  and  I  tell  him, 
and  he  votes.  That  is  my  ballot,  for  my  judgment  casts  it. 
But  what  do  you  think  of  the  good  sense  of  a  community  that 
allowing  me  capable  of  instructing  a  man  how  to  vote,  will  not 
allow  that  I  am  capable  of  voting  myself?  What  do  you 
think  of  the  good  sense  of  a  country  that  denies  to  a  cultured 
woman  a  right  which  it  accords  to  the  uncultured  man  who 
opens  her  street  door  ?" 

"  Well,"  returned  Wentworth,  laughing,  "  we  are  not  all 
such  fools,  Muriel,  as  to  think  the  arrangement  you  criticise 
right  and  proper." 

"  Come,  children,"  said  Mrs.  Eastman,  after  a  pause,  "  since 
the  play  is  over,  let  us  adjourn  to  the  library." 

And  she  departed,  followed  by  the  others.  Harrington, 
seeing  Muriel  linger,  half-absently,  paused  near  her.  Becoming 
aware  that  he  was  looking  at  her,  she  looked  up  from  her 
musing,  with  a  quiet  smile. 

"Well,  fairy  prince,"  he  said,  lightly. 

"  Ah,"  she  replied,  with  pensive  playfulness,  "  you  recognize 
the  fairy  prince  in  me,  then,  do  you  ?  And  that  is  the  fairy 
prince  I  am  to  follow  through  all  the  world." 

She  had  approached  him  as  she  spoke,  and  while  he  looked 
at  her  with  an  inquiring  face,  seeking  to  fathom  the  riddle  of 
her  speech,  she  passed  close  by  him,  with  a  light  waft  of  deli 
cate  perfume,  and  vanished  into  her  chamber. 

He  stood  for  a  moment,  lost  in  a  sense  of  some  unravelled 


242  HABEINGTON. 

theirs  in  the  centre  of  the  hall,  and  going  down  the  aisle  at 
once,  they  took  the  vacant  places.  Harrington  had  passed  in 
first,  and  leaning  over  to  Muriel,  said  in  a  whisper  : 

"  Did  you  see  your  uncle  as  we  came  in  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  replied.  "  Who  was  that  with  him,  that  looked 
at  you  so  strangely  ?" 

Harrington  turned  his  head  and  gazed  up  to  the  back  of 
the  hall,  where  Mr.  Atkins  was  sitting,  scornfully  listening  to 
the  speaker.  By  his  side  he  saw  a  dark,  handsome  face,  with 
a  moustache,  and  the  face  was  intently  watching  him.  With 
a  vague  thrill  he  turned  again  to  Muriel. 

"  I  don't  know  him,"  he  whispered. 

"It  is  strange,"  she  whispered  in  reply.  "  I  saw  by  Mr. 
Atkins's  manner  that  he  was  telling  that  person  who  we  were, 
and  I  know  by  the  slight  start  the  stranger  gave,  and  the  look 
he  cast  at  you,  that  my  uncle  had  mentioned  your  name,  and 
that  the  stranger  had  some  interest  in  you." 

Nothing  more  was  said,  but  Harrington  felt  disturbed  even 
to  apprehension,  though  he  could  not  have  told  why.  In  a 
minute  or  two,  looking  around  again,  he  saw  the  stranger  still 
watching  him,  and  saw  his  eye  wander  away  with  a  sinister 
smile.  Turning  his  face  resolutely  to  the  platform,  Harrington, 
with  another  mysterious  tremor,  tried  to  recollect  if  he  had 
ever  seen  that  face  before,  and  unable  to  recall  it,  he  dismissed 
it  from  his  thoughts  with  a  strong  effort  of  will,  and  set  him 
self  to  listen  to  the  speaker. 

Just  then,  the  speaker  ended,  and  sat  down,  amidst  a  rush 
ing  rustle  of  the  audience,  and  some  slight  applause.  There 
was  a  minute's  intermission,  during  which  Harrington's  eye 
swept  over  the  multitude,  seated  in  rows  around  him,  and  fill 
ing  the  gallery,  which  extended  in  a  horse-shoe  curve  around 
the  walls  of  the  oblong  hall.  Both  sexes  were  about  equally 
represented  in  the  concourse,  which  was  dotted  here  and  there 
with  the  dark  faces  of  negroes.  The  platform  was  occupied 
by  a  number  of  the  anti-slavery  leaders,  men  and  women.  The 
chairman,  who  was  leaning  from  his  seat  in  hasty  conference 
with  two  or  three  persons,  was  the  gallant  Francis  Jackson,  a 
wealthy  citizen,  who,  when  the  "  gentlemen  "  of  Boston  had 


HAKEINGTON.  243 

broken  up  an  anti-slavery  meeting  of  women,  fifteen  years  be 
fore,  opened  his  house  to  the  outcasts,  at  the  imminent  peril 
of  having  it  razed  by  the  mob.     But  he  was  resolved  to  defend 
free  speech,  and  in  this  cause,  said  he,  "  let  my  walls  fall  if 
they  must  :  they  will  appear  of  little  value  after  their  owner 
shall  have  been  whipped  into  silence."     Such  was  the  Roman 
deed,  the  Roman  word,  of  Francis  Jackson.     Near  him  sat 
Garrison.     The  light  of  the  chandelier  shone  full  on  the  bald 
head  and  high-featured,  dauntless  face  of  the  grand  Puritan — 
a  face  in  which  blended  the  austere  gentleness  of  Brewster 
with  the  stern  integrity  and  solemn  enthusiasm  of  Vane.    Not 
far  distant  was  the  antique  and  noble  countenance  of  Burleigh, 
with  its  long  beard  and  lengths  of  ringlets  giving  it  the  cha 
racter  of  some  of  the  heads  mediaeval  painters  have  imagined 
for  Jesus.     An  orator  he,  whose  massive  and  definite  logic  ran 
burning  with  Miltonian  sweep,  and  could  burst,  when  he  so 
chose,  in  an  iron  hail  of  Miltonian  invective.      By  his  side, 
Harrington  saw  the  domed  brow  and  Socratic  features  of  the 
mighty  Theodore,  with  the  lips  curling  in  some  rich  stroke  of 
whispered  wit,  which  brought  a  momentary  smile  to  the  face 
of  Burleigh.     Behind  them  was  the  rugged  and  salient  visage 
of  Parker  Pillsbury,  a  man  whose  speech  rode  like  the  Pounder 
of  Bivar,  and  smote  with  a  flail.     Before  Harrington's  eye  had 
wandered  from  him,  the  chairman  rose,  announcing  a  name 
which  was  lost  in  the  sudden  pour  of  applause  that  swept  up 
from  the  front,  and  spread  from  rank  to  rank  with  loud  cheers, 
and  then  at  once  the  whole  concourse  burst  into  a  surging  and 
tossing  uproar  of  acclamation,  as  a  beautiful  patrician  figure, 
dressed  in  black,  came  forward  on  the  lighted  platform. 

It  was  Wendell  Phillips — the  flower  of  the  anti-slavery 
chivalry.  Memory  recalls  the  words  in  which  Robertus 
Monachus  describes  the  leader  of  the  twelfth  century  Crusa 
ders,  Godfrey  of  Bouillon  :  "  He  was  beautiful  in  counte 
nance,"  says  the  chronicler,  "  tall  in  stature,  agreeable  in  his  dis 
course,  admirable  in  his  morals,  and  at  the  same  time  so  gentle, 
that  he  seemed  better  fitted  for  the  monk  than  the  knight  ; 
but  when  his  enemies  appeared  before  him,  and  the  combat 
approached,  his  soul  became  filled  with  mighty  daring  ;  like  a 


244:  HAEKINGTON. 

lion,  he  feared  not  for  his  person — and  what  shield,  what 
buckler,  could  resist  the  fall  of  his  sword  ?"  So  might  one 
describe  the  great  Abolitionist.  But  a  poetic  heart  would 
take  from  that  righ  old  world  Past  a  more  lustrous  figure  than 
even  Godfrey  to  stand  as  his  representative.  In  England  they 
call  Lord  Derby  the  Rupert  of  debate  ;  and  far  more  aptly 
might  Wendell  Phillips  be  termed  the  Tancred  of  liberty.  In 
his  personal  appearance,  as  in  the  attitude  of  his  life,  the  na 
ture  of  his  thought,  and  the  style  of  his  rhetoric,  there  was 
that  which  recalled  the  image  of  the  loveliest  of  the  antique 
chevaliers.  As  he  stood  on  that  brilliant  platform,  while  the 
enthusiastic  applause  swelled  and  tossed  in  a  tempest  of  sound 
and  stir — one  foot  advanced,  his  hands  lightly  clasped  behind 
him,  his  head  curved  a  little  to  one  side,  the  light  bringing 
out  in  definite  relief  a  face  and  form  in  strange  contrast  with 
every  other  around  him,  and  whose  statuesque  repose  seemed 
heightened  by  the  tumultuous  commotion  of  the  audience — he 
impressed  the  eye  like  a  piece  of  exquisite  sculpture  when  seen 
among  the  alien  shapes  of  men.  A  tall-browed,  oval  head  of 
severe  and  singular  grace  ;  long,  clear-cut,  Roman  features  ;  a 
keen  and  penetrant  eye  ;  around  the  firm  mouth  a  glimmer  of 
feminine  sweetness  ;  the  face  harmonized  with  an  expression  of 
golden  urbanity  ;  and  in  the  whole  aspect  the  polished  ease  of 
the  gentleman  blended  with  the  lofty  bearing  of  the  Paladin. 
And  a  Paladin  he  was — a  star  of  oratoric  tournament,  proved 
so  by  many  a  hard-fought  argument  in  the  chivalrous  fields  of 
liberty,  where  his  eloquence,  that  fiery  sword  wrought  of  Jus 
tice  and  Beauty,  as  his  friend  Parker  has  called  it,  flashed  and 
rang  on  the  armor  of  the  vile,  and  brought  new  courage  to 
the  war.  None  listened  to  the  bright  and  terrible  music  of 
his  speech  unmoved  ;  no  bitterest  conservative  could  hear  it 
without  owning  its  magic.  Robbed  of  his  just  due  of  fame 
by  the  unpopularity  of  the  cause  he  championed,  even  his  foes 
could  whisper  that  he  was  the  greatest  orator  in  America — 
even  the  scholars  of  the  Boston  "  Courier",  the  representative 
pro-slavery  organ  in  that  latitude,  and  the  deadly  enemy  of  the 
Abolitionists,  could  call  him,  with  strange  warmth,  the  Cicero 
of  anti-slavery. 


HARKINGTON. 

The  applause  sunk  down,  and  an  expectant,  breathless  hush 
succeeded.  Slowly  his  lips  curved  apart,  and  the  clear,  per 
suasive  silver  of  his  voice  flowed  into  words.  It  was  a  simple 
and  ordinary  sentence,  and  yet  what  a  fascination  it  had  I  It 
was  not  a  sentence — it  was  something  bright  that  flew  into 
the  souls  of  his  audience  ;  and  as  it  flew,  the  magnetic  glance 
of  his  eye  seemed  to  follow  it,  and  every  one  was  captive.  His 
address  was  at  once  exposition  and  criticism.  The  condition 
of  the  nation,  the  aggressions  of  the  slave  oligarchy,  the  recent 
plunder  of  Mexico  for  the  extension  of  slavery,  the  servility 
of  the  pulpit,  the  pro-slavery  scheming  of  Northern  merchants 
and  manufacturers — these  were  his  themes,  and  how  he  treated 
them  I  He  was  not  in  his  loftiest  lyric  mood  that  night,  and 
his  speech  only  rose  now  and  then  from  its  tone  of  exquisite 
impressive  colloquy  into  the  long,  imperial  sweep  of  the  ora 
tion  ;  but  still,  as  Thomas  Davis  said  of  Curran,  his  words 
went  forth  in  robes  of  light  with  swords.  Shapes  of  severest 
crystal  grace  that  moved  to  Dorian  music,  an  armed  battalia, 
a  bright  procession,  the  splendid  phrases  trooped,  with  strength 
to  strike  and  skill  to  guard  for  liberty  and  justice.  What 
language — so  finely  chosen,  so  apt,  terse,  limpid,  electrical  1 
What  logic — proof-mail  of  gold  and  steel  around  his  thought, 
or  a  smiting  weapon  of  celestial  temper  !  Now  came  some 
metaphor  so  analogically  related  to  the  theme  that  it  flashed 
on  the  mind  like  a  subtle  argument.  And  now  a  sentence 
shining  upon  the  imagination  with  the  beauty  of  an  antique 
frieze.  Here  was  an  expression  that  memory  would  wear  like 
a  gem-cameo  forever.  And  here  some  jewel  of  classic  story 
re-cut  more  purely,  or  some  historic  picture  that  glowed  sharp, 
definite,  in  lines  and  hues  of  life,  upon  the  eye  of  the  mind. 
Now  it  was  the  scimitar-glance  of  wit  shearing  the  floating 
film  of  some  intangible  popular  delusion,  or  lie.  Now  some 
homely  illustration  borrowed  from  the  street,  the  shop,  the 
farm,  yet  suddenly  interpenetrated  with  as  strange  a  poetic 
grace  as  though  it  had  dropped  from  the  lips  of  Tully  two 
thousand  years  ago.  Or  here  again  invective,  rising  above 
some  gloomy  wrong,  and  smiting  bright,  like  the  diamond 
sword  of  Dante's  black-stoled  angel.  Rhetoric,  yet  not  the 


246  HARRINGTON. 

artificial,  decorative  rhetoric  of  the  schools,  but  an  organic 
growth  of  the  man.  Art,  but  art  that  seemed  like  nature,  for 
it  was  the  art  that  nature  makes.  One  felt,  and  truly  felt,  in 
listening  to  the  orator,  that  this  was  his  natural  normal  speech. 
It  was  beautiful,  it  was  ornate,  it  was  artistic,  but  it  was  of 
the  heart,  it  was  of  the  life  j  and  everywhere  it  was  the  stern, 
the  solemn  voice  of  conscience,  of  honor,  of  virtue — everywhere 
it  was  terrible  and  sacred  with  radiant  pity  for  the  poor  and 
weak,  flaming  scorn  for  the  traitor  and  the  oppressor,  burning 
love  for  liberty  and  justice.  But  who  is  he  that  shall  so  much 
as  hint  description  of  thf^classic  grace,  the  delicate  fiery  power 
of  the  speeches  of  Wendell  Phillips  to  the  men  of  Boston  ?  The 
golden  bees  that  clustered  at  the  lips  of  baby  Plato,  must 
swarm  again  from  old  Hymettus  to  the  cradle  of  the  child  un 
born  who  shall  essay  to  tell  the  magic  of  that  eloquence.  Say 
that  in  an  age  and  land  of  muck-rakes  it  was  the  speech  of  a 
gentleman — say  that  in  its  tones  were  heard  the  ancestral 
voices  from  the  blocks  and  battle-fields  of  liberty — say  that  it 
touched  with  heavenly  ardor  and  lifted  to  nobler  life  all  uncor- 
rupted  hearts,  and  was  light  to  the  blind,  and  conscience  to 
the  base,  and  to  the  caitiff  whatever  he  could  know  of  shame  ; 
so  leave  it  to  worthier  and  more  abundant  praise,  and  to  the 
future. 

The  applause  which  had  burst  forth  again  and  again  during 
the  speech,  now  swelled  into  a  tempest  of  acclamation  as  the 
orator  withdrew.  Muriel  still  kept  her  lit  face  fixed  on  the 
platform,  and  Emily,  kindled  into  ardent  color,  leaned  back 
with  a  sigh.  Wentworth,  meanwhile,  flushed  with  delight, 
was  splitting  his  gloves  to  ribbons  with  vehement  applause, 
when  looking  around,  his  eye  fell  upon  Harrington,  and  stop 
ping  in  the  midst  of  his  furore,  he  stared  at  him,  amazed. 
Harrington's  strong  face  was  white,  his  brow  knitted,  and  his 
nostrils  tensely  drawn. 

"  What's  the  matter,  John  ?"  cried  Wentworth,  alarmed, 
and  raising  his  voice  to  be  heard  amidst  the  cheering. 

Muriel  and  Emily  both  looked  at  him  suddenly,  and  the 
young  man  recovering,  smiled  like  one  sick  at  heart,  and  rose. 
They  thought  him  ill,  and  unheeding  the  announcement  of  the 


HABRINGTON.  247 

next  speaker,  they  left  their  seats  and  went  from  the  hall,  Mu 
riel  and  Harrington  noticing,  as  they  passed  up  the  aisle,  that 
the  seats  occupied  by  Mr.  Atkins  and  the  stranger  were 
vacant. 

In  the  vestibule,  Harrington  paused  with  Emily  on  his  arm. 

"  Muriel,"  he  said,  "  I  want  to  speak  with  you  a  moment." 

She  left  Wentworth  instantly,  and  came  to  him,  with  a  face 
of  inquiry. 

"  Muriel/'  he  said,  in  a  low,  clear  voice,  taking  her  hands 
in  his,  and  looking  into  her  eyes,  "  I  feel  a  dreadful  foreboding. 
It  struck  upon  me  just  now  who  that  man  is  we  saw  with 
your  uncle." 

"  Who  is  it  ?"  she  said,  quickly. 

"  Lafitte  !  I  know  it  is  he.  I  feel  it  in  my  soul,"  he  re 
plied. 

For  a  moment  she  looked  at  him  vacantly,  with  parted  lips 
and  dilated  eyes. 

"  Hurry,"  she  cried,  breaking  from  him  ;  "  hurry  home. 
Come,  Wentworth.  Oh,  it's  nothing,"  she  said,  with  a  vanish 
ing  smile,  as  she  caught  the  astonished  eyes  of  the  young  artist. 
"  Ask  me  no  questions,  Richard.  You  shall  know  hereafter." 

And  putting  her  arm  in  his,  they  went  off  rapidly  together, 
followed  by  Harrington  and  Emily. 

On  the  way,  Harrington  told  Emily  of  his  conjecture,  and 
they  excitedly  discussed  the  matter  till  they  arrived  with  the 
other  two  at  the  door  of  the  house. 

"  Now,  Emily  and  Richard,"  said  Muriel,  "  you  go  in.  John 
and  I  are  going  to  walk  further.  And,  Emily,"  she  whis 
pered,  "  tell  mother  I  shall  bring  home  five  people  to  stop  all 
night.  Remember.  Come,  John;"  and  taking  his  arm,  they 
went  up  Temple  street  together. 

"Well,  by  Jupiter!"  exclaimed  the  mystified  Wentworth, 
"  this  is  decidedly  odd  !  What  does  it  mean,  Emily  ?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you,"  replied  Emily,  coldly.  "Will  you 
please  ring  ?" 

Wentworth,  bitterly  recalled  to  her  attitude  toward  him  by 
this  frigid  reticence,  rang  the  bell,  and  the  door  opening 
presently,  they  went  in. 


248  HAEKINGTON. 

In  the  meantime,  Muriel  and  Harrington  went  np  the  street 
together,  he  vaguely  thrilling  with  the  electric  energy  of  her 
manner.  She  was  silent  for  a  few  moments. 

"John,"  she  said,  suddenly,  "  I  respect  an  intuition  like  this 
of  yours,  and  I  think  you  are  right.  Roux  is  in  danger.  Now 
this  man  only  arrived  to-day." 

"  How  do  you  know,  Muriel,"  he  interrupted. 

"  Thus,"  she  replied.  "  On  the  way  home  from  Mr.  Parker's, 
Emily  and  I  overtook  little  Julia  Atkins,  and  she  said  that  a 
gentleman  from  New  Orleans  had  come  to  town,  to-day,  and 
was  to  dine  with  them.  I  did  not  ask  her  anything  on  the 
subject,  for  the  conceit  of  the  child's  manner  was  not  agreeable, 
and  I  changed  the  subject.  But  that  was  the  gentleman  from 
New  Orleans,  I  am  confident.  No  doubt,  Uncle  Lemuel  and 
he  thought  it  would  be  amusing  to  visit  an  Anti-Slavery  Con 
vention." 

"  Yes,  and  the  next  thing  a  warrant  will  be  out  for  Roux, 
and  we  shall  have  another  fugitive  slave-case  in  Boston,"  said 
Harrington.  "  But  I  shall  stop  that  by  taking  Roux  home  to 
my  house,  and  sitting  with  him  with  loaded  pistols  till  the  hunt 
is  abandoned." 

"Bravo,  John,"  cried  Muriel.  "But  that  will  never  do. 
Mr.  Atkins  told  that  man  your  name,  I  know,  and  you  are 
likely  to  have  an  early  visit  from  him.  It  will  not  do  to  have 
Roux  at  your  house.  Roux  must  be  hid  where  they  will  never 
think  of  searching  for  him." 

"  True,"  he  replied.  "  But,  by  the  way,  Muriel,  where  are 
we  going  now  ?" 

"Have  you  just  thought  to  ask?"  she  answered,  gaily. 
"  Oh,  John  I  But  we  are  going  to  bring  five  people  home  to 
my  house." 

"  Muriel  1"  He  started  as  he  spoke.  The  tears  sprung  to 
his  eyes,  as  looking  into  her  noble  face,  he  met  its  proud  and 
laughing  gaze. 

"We  are  going  to  Southac  street,  you  know,"  she  said, 
"  and  we  shall  bring  home  Roux  and  his  wife,  Charles,  and  the 
two  children.  That's  five.  The  baby  we  don't  count,"  she 
playfully  added. 


HARRINGTON.  249 

Harrington  was  speechless  with  emotion. 

"  In  Temple  street  they  will  be  safe  for  the  present,"  she 
continued.  "Then  we  can  decide  on  the  next  step.  I  think 
Roux  must  remove  to  Worcester,  for  whatever  they  may  do  in 
Boston,  I  believe  they  will  never  take  a  fugitive  from  Worces 
ter.  There's  good  blood  yet  in  the  heart  of  the  Commonwealth, 
the  heart  of  which,  moreover,  is  the  heart  of  Wentworth  Hig- 
ginson." 

Wentworth  Higginson  was,  at  that  period,  the  gallant 
minister  of  the  Free  Church  at  Worcester,  a  man  with  the 
Revolutionary  soul  of  fire,  and  the  incarnate  nucleus  of  that 
glorious  public  spirit  which  is  still  prompt  to  defend  a  man 
against  the  kidnappers  in  the  heart  of  the  old  Commonwealth. 

"Meanwhile,"  pursued  Muriel,  "I'll  take  care  of  poor 
Roux." 

"  Oh,  Muriel !"  said  Harrington,  fervently,  "  there  is  no 
nobleness,  no  tenderness,  like  yours." 

In  the  wan  moonlight  he  saw  her  color  under  his  impassioned 
gaze.  She  did  not  reply  for  a  moment,  but  turning  her  face 
away,  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  its  almost  imper 
ceptible  tremor  sent  a  mystical,  sweet  agitation  through  his 
being. 

"It  is  nothing  but  a  duty,"  she  replied,  presently,  in  a 
gentle  voice.  "  A  clear  and  simple  duty.  Life  opens  plainlier 
to  me  every  day,  and  I  see  that  I  have  wealth  and  strength 
and  youth,  that  I  may  succor  and  protect  the  poor  1" 

No  more  was  said,  but  tranced  in  thoughts  and  feelings  too 
sacred  and  deep  for  words,  they  moved  in  silence  through  the 
dim  and  solitary  streets,-  vaguely  lit  by  the  wan  lustre  of  the 
moon.  There  were  lights  in  the  houses  as  they  passed,  for  it 
was  not  y,et  ten  o'clock,  but  save  a  few  boys,  white  and  negro, 
fantastically  playing  in  some  of  the  streets,  and  half-dispirited 
in  their  nocturnal  games  by  the  strange  bleakness  of  the  air, 
they  hardly  met  a  person. 

Lights  glimmered  dimly  in  the  windows  of  Southac  street, 
but  Roux's  windows  were  in  darkness.  Some  negro  boys, 
sitting  on  the  wooden  steps  of  his  abode,  made  way  for  them, 
and  ascending  they  entered  the  open  outer  door,  and  tapped 

11* 


250  HARRINGTON.  * 

at  the  panels  of  his  room.  No  answer.  They  tapped  louder. 
No  answer  still.  Harrington,  oddly  remembering  the  strenuous 
snoring  of  Tug  mutton  on  the  nights  in  March  when  Roux 
was  sick,  and  he  had  watched  with  him,  put  his  ear  to  the 
door  and  listened  for  those  tokens  of  the  fat  boy's  slumbers. 
But  no  sound  reached  him. 

"  Pray  Heaven  nothing  has  happened,"  said  Muriel.  "  Let 
us  try  the  other  door." 

Harrington  turned  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  passage,  and 
knocked  loudly.  There  was  an  instant  stir  within,  and  pre 
sently  the  door  opened,  and  a  strange  little  wizened  colored 
man,  not  more  than  four  feet  high,  with  a  pair  of  tin-rimmed 
spectacles  on  his  shrunken  nose,  and  a  long  coat  reaching 
nearly  to  his  heels,  appeared,  with  a  copy  of  the  "  Common 
wealth"  newspaper  in  his  left  hand,  and  in  the  other  a  tallow 
candle  stuck  in  a  bottle  which  he  held  above  his  head.  Har 
rington  had  seen  him  before,  though  he  had  forgotten  his 
name. 

"  Good  evening,  sir.  Can  you  tell  me  where  Mr.  Roux  is 
this  evening  ?"  asked  Harrington. 

The  little  man  stood  still  for  a  moment,  gazing  past  them  at 
nothing,  and  looking  like  some  fantastic  little  corpse,  set  bolt 
upright. 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Harrington.  Good  evening,  Mrs.  Har 
rington,"  he  said,  at  length,  in  a  voice  like  the  squeak  of-  a 
mouse.  Then  he  paused.  Muriel  smiled  faintly  at  the  oddity 
of  being  called  Mrs.  Harrington,  and  though  the  wizened 
creature  was  not  looking  at  her,  he  seemed  to  see  the  smile, 
for  he  smiled  also  in  a  slow,  fantastic,  frozen  way. 

"  Willum  Roux's  been  took  off,"  he  at  length  squeaked  in 
a  deliberate  tone. 

Harrington  and  Muriel  started  violently,  and  holding  each 
other,  looked  at  the  speaker. 

"  Took  off  1"  gasped  Harrington.     "  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

The  little  man  made  another  long  pause,  then  squeaked  like 
an  incantation,  "  Oph'elee  !" 

A  large  fat  mulatto  woman  with  a  red  kerchief  tied  round 
her  head,  came  from,  within,  rubbing  her  eyes.  Ophelia  had 


HARRINGTON.  251 

evidently  been  asleep,  but  she  nodded  her  head,  bright  and 
wide  awake,  when  she  saw  the  visitors. 

"  What  has  become  of  Roux  ?"  said  Harrington,  looking  at 
her  with  his  pale,  startled  face. 

"  Oh,  they's  all  been  took  off  to  Cambridge,"  she  replied 
quickly,  towering  in  good-natured  bulk  above  her  elvish  hus 
band,  why  stood  like  one  magnetized.  "  Clarindy  Roux's  mar 
ried  sister  lives  thar,  Mr.  Har'nton,  an'  her  old  man  come  in 
with  his  wagon  and  took  'm  all  out  thar  this  afternoon.  They's 
to  be  fetched  back  to-morrow  at  dinner-time,  so  Tug  says." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Harrington.  "  Good  evening  ;"  and 
"  good  evening,"  said  Muriel ;  both  too  much  agitated  with 
the  sudden  relief  that  swept  over  them,  to  say  another  word. 

"  Laws  bless  you  ;  good  evening,"  said  Ophelia ;  and 
"  good  evening,  Mr.  Harrington — good  evening,  Mrs.  Harring 
ton,"  squeaked  the  strange  little  creature,  still  standing  in  the 
same  attitude,  as  Muriel  and  Harrington  departed. 

"  Well,"  said  Muriel,  with  a  deep-drawn  breath,  and  then  a 
laugh,  as  they  gained  the  street  ;  "  that  was  as  good  a  fright 
as  I  ever  got  in  my  life." 

"  A  fright,  indeed,"  he  returned.  "  I  felt  as  if  I  should 
swoon!" 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  few  moments. 

"  What  a  singular  little  kobold  that  is,"  she  said,  as  they 
went  into  the  street. 

"  Very,"  replied  Harrington.  il  He's  a  tailor,  and  a  great 
Free-Soiler,  as  you  may  imagine  by  the  newspaper  he  had. 
Now,  Muriel,  it  seems  the  Rouxs  are  fortunately  away  for  the 
night.  So  they're  safe  for  the  present." 

"  Yes,"  she  returned,  gaily  ;  "  and  my  word  is  forfeit,  for 
where  are  my  five  captives  1  Pf'importe.  I'll  have  them  to 
morrow." 

"  To-morrow,  at  noon,  we'll  come  here  together,"  said  Har 
rington. 

"  Agreed,"  she  replied.  "  Punctually,  at  one  o'clock,  we'll 
be  here  ;  and,  like  two  fairy  princes,  carry  off  the  Ogre's 
victim." 

They  fell  from  this  into  a  strain  of  talk,  half-gay,  half-serious  ; 


250  HAKKINGTON.  « 

at  the  panels  of  his  room.  No  answer.  They  tapped  louder. 
No  answer  still.  Harrington,  oddly  remembering  the  strenuous 
snoring  of  Tugmutton  on  the  nights  in  March  when  Roux 
was  sick,  and  he  had  watched  with  him,  put  his  ear  to  the 
door  and  listened  for  those  tokens  of  the  fat  boy's  slumbers. 
But  no  sound  reached  him. 

"  Pray  Heaven  nothing  has  happened,"  said  Muriel.  "  Let 
us  try  the  other  door.'7 

Harrington  turned  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  passage,  and 
knocked  loudly.  There  was  an  instant  stir  within,  and  pre 
sently  the  door  opened,  and  a  strange  little  wizened  colored 
man,  not  more  than  four  feet  high,  with  a  pair  of  tin-rimmed 
spectacles  on  his  shrunken  nose,  and  a  long  coat  reaching 
nearly  to  his  heels,  appeared,  with  a  copy  of  the  "  Common 
wealth"  newspaper  in  his  left  hand,  and  in  the  other  a  tallow 
candle  stuck  in  a  bottle  which  he  held  above  his  head.  Har 
rington  had  seen  him  before,  though  he  had  forgotten  his 
name. 

"  Good  evening,  sir.  Can  you  tell  me  where  Mr.  Roux  is 
this  evening  ?"  asked  Harrington. 

The  little  man  stood  still  for  a  moment,  gazing  past  them  at 
nothing,  and  looking  like  some  fantastic  little  corpse,  set  bolt 
upright. 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Harrington.  Good  evening,  Mrs.  Har 
rington,"  he  said,  at  length,  in  a  voice  like  the  squeak  of  a 
mouse.  Then  he  paused.  Muriel  smiled  faintly  at  the  oddity 
of  being  called  Mrs.  Harrington,  and  though  the  wizened 
creature  was  not  looking  at  her,  he  seemed  to  see  the  smile, 
for  he  smiled  also  in  a  slow,  fantastic,  frozen  way. 

"  Willum  Roux's  been  took  off,"  he  at  length  squeaked  in 
a  deliberate  tone. 

Harrington  and  Muriel  started  violently,  and  holding  each 
other,  looked  at  the  speaker. 

"  Took  off  1"  gasped  Harrington.     "  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

The  little  man  made  another  long  pause,  then  squeaked  like 
an  incantation,  "  Optielee  1" 

A  large  fat  mulatto  woman  with  a  red  kerchief  tied  round 
her  head,  came  from,  within,  rubbing  her  eyes.  Ophelia  had 


HARRINGTON.  251 

evidently  been  asleep,  but  she  nodded  her  head,  bright  and 
wide  awake,  when  she  saw  the  visitors. 

"  What  has  become  of  Roux  ?"  said  Harrington,  looking  at 
her  with  his  pale,  startled  face. 

"  Oh,  they's  all  been  took  off  to  Cambridge,"  she  replied 
quickly,  towering  in  good-natured  bulk  above  her  elvish  hus 
band,  why  stood  like  one  magnetized.  "  Clarindy  Roux's  mar 
ried  sister  lives  thar,  Mr.  Har'nton,  an'  her  old  man  come  in 
with  his  wagon  and  took  7m  all  out  thar  this  afternoon.  They's 
to  be  fetched  back  to-morrow  at  dinner-time,  so  Tug  says." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Harrington.  "  Good  evening  ;"  and 
"  good  evening,"  said  Muriel;  both  too  much  agitated  with 
the  sudden  relief  that  swept  over  them,  to  say  another  word. 

"  Laws  bless  you  ;  good  evening,'7  said  Ophelia ;  and 
"  good  evening,  Mr.  Harrington — good  evening,  Mrs.  Harring 
ton,"  squeaked  the  strange  Irttle  creature,  still  standing  in  the 
same  attitude,  as  Muriel  and  Harrington  departed. 

"  Well,"  said  Muriel,  with  a  deep-drawn  breath,  and  then  a 
laugh,  as  they  gained  the  street  ;  "  that  was  as  good  a  fright 
as  I  ever  got  in  my  life." 

"  A  fright,  indeed,"  he  returned.  "  I  felt  as  if  I  should 
swoon!" 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  few  moments. 

"  What  a  singular  little  kobold  that  is,"  she  said,  as  they 
went  into  the  street. 

"  Very,"  replied  Harrington.  "  He's  a  tailor,  and  a  great 
Free-Soiler,  as  you  may  imagine  by  the  newspaper  he  had. 
Now,  Muriel,  it  seems  the  Rouxs  are  fortunately  away  for  the 
night.  So  they're  safe  for  the  present." 

"  Yes,"  she  returned,  gaily  ;  "  and  my  word  is  forfeit,  for 
where  are  my  five  captives  !  JV'importe.  I'll  have  them  to 
morrow." 

"  To-morrow,  at  noon,  we'll  come  here  together,"  said  Har 
rington. 

"  Agreed,"  she  replied.  "  Punctually,  at  one  o'clock,  we'll 
be  here  ;  and,  like  two  fairy  princes,  carry  off  the  Ogre's 
victim." 

They  fell  from  this  into  a  strain  of  talk,  half-gay,  half-serious  ; 


252  HAEEINGTON. 

and,  satisfied  that  affairs  were  in  a  good  state  at  present,  re 
turned  rapidly  to  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

WAR   AND    PEACE. 

AFTER  the  incidents  of  the  evening,  it  was  not  a  little  discom 
posing  to  behold,  as  they  did,  upon  entering  the  parlor,  Mrs. 
Atkins,  Miss  Atkins  and  Julia,  together  with  Fernando  With- 
erlee.  The  Atkins  family  had  been  there  for  a  couple  of  hours, 
making  a  family  call.  Muriel  was  a  favorite  with  them,  as 
with  everybody,  and  they  saluted  her  affectionately  ;  she  re 
sponding  with  her  usual  affability.  Harrington,  too,  was  po 
litely  favored  ;  though  Mrs.  Atkins  (who  had  been  a  poor 
country  girl  once)  and  her  daughters,  also,  had  their  misgiv 
ings  as  to  his  being  of  sufficient  respectability  to  deserve  the 
civilities  due  only  to  Good  Society.  But,  despite  this  conside 
ration,  no  woman  could  resist  the  sweet  manhood  of  young 
Harrington  ;  and  so  he  received  from  these  ladies  as  much 
politeness  as  though  he  moved,  with  mutton-chop  whiskers  and 
modish  clothes,  in  fashionable  circles — which  was  unfair. 

While  Muriel  was  privately  explaining  matters  to  her  mother, 
Harrington  joined  in  the  conversation,  in  which  all  partici 
pated,  save  Wentworth,  who  was  unusually  quiet,  and  sat  a 
little  apart,  with  a  cold  and  reserved  air,  the  result  of  his  feel 
ings  for  Emily.  The  conversation,  which  had  been  on  topics 
more  or  less  commonplace,  and  had  hovered  frequently  about, 
and  several  times  fairly  settled  on,  the  charms  and  graces  of 
Mr.  Lafitte,  dipped  again  to  that  enrapturing  theme,  by  the 
will  of  Mrs.  Atkins.  Miss  Atkins,  by  the  way,  though  still  a 
devotee  of  the  chivalrous  son  of  the  sunny  South,  had  suffered 
some  slight  abatement  of  her  rapture  ;  having  learned,  by 
chance,  that  Mr.  Lafitte  was  already  married. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Harrington,"  continued  Mrs.  Atkins,  after  much 
eulogium  of  the  Southern  gentleman  who  had  done  us  the  honor 


HARRINGTON.  253 

of  dining  with  us  to-day,  "  if  you  could  only  meet  Mr.  Lafitte, 
you  would  have  such  different  ideas  of  the  Southern  gentlemen." 

"  Indeed,  madam,"  replied  Harrington,  courteously  ,  "  I 
should  be  sorry  to  have  my  ideas  of  Southern  gentlemen  changed, 
for  I  credit  them  with  many  fine  and  high  qualities.  Don't 
think  that  I  imagine  Northerners  and  Southerners  in  the  ab 
solute  colors  of  good  and  evil — black  and  white  ;  all  the  white 
on  our  side,  and  all  the  black  on  theirs." 

11  Oh,  no,  of  course  not,"  responded  Mrs.  Atkins  in  her  fal-lal 
manner  •  "  but  I  thought  you  were  so  anti-slavery,  Mr.  Har 
rington." 

"  I  certainly  am  anti-slavery,  madam,"  good-naturedly  said 
Harrington,  "  and  if  I  were  living  in  Hancock's  time,  I  should 
be  on  the  same  principles  anti-George  the  Third.  But  I  hope 
I  should  not  any  the  less  pay  due  regard  to  the  Tory  gentle 
men  of  that  era.  As  far  as  their  Toryism  went,  I  should  of 
course  be  their  foe,  and  in  like  manner  I  am  hostile  to  the 
gentlemen  of  this  day  who  are  tyrants." 

"  But,  Mr.  Harrington,"  said  Julia,  pertly,  "  you  don't  like 
Mr.  Webster,  and  I  know  you  don't,  do  you  ?  Now  do  tell 
me,  Mr.  Harrington,  why  you  don't  like  Mr.  Webster. 

Witherlee  smiled  furtively  at  Miss  Julia's  immature  gabble, 
and  lifted  his  eyebrows  in  a  faint  sneer. 

"  Because,  Miss  Julia,"  replied  Harrington  simply,  with  a 
gentle  impressiveness  of  voice  and  manner  which  brought  a 
new  sensation  to  the  poor  child's  mind,  and  made  her  color, 
"because  Mr.  Webster  helped  to  pass  a  law  which  has  made  a 
great  many  poor  people  very  unhappy.  You  yourself  wouldn't 
like  a  man  who  made  innocent  people  suffer,  would  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  of  course  not,"  stammered  Julia,  while  Witherlee 
smiled  maliciously,  enjoying  her  confusion. 

"  Dear  me  !  but  they're  only  negroes,  Mr.  Harrington," 
feebly  remarked  Mrs.  Atkins,  in  a  deprecating  tone. 

"  But,  Mrs.  Atkins,  negroes  have  feelings,"  said  Emily. 

"  Oh,  well,  dear,"  responded  Mrs.  Atkins,  "  but  their  feelings 
are  not  the  same  as  ours,  you  know.  That  is,  they  haven't 
fine  feelings.". 

"  You  remember  the  case  that  was  lately  reported  in  the 


254:  HABEINGTON. 

newspapers.  Mrs.  Atkins,"  said  Harrington.  "  The  rumor 
came  that  the  kidnappers  were  in  town  with  a  warrant  for  a 
colored  man,  and  his  wife  fell  down  dead  with  alarm  when  she 
heard  it.  I  think  you  must  allow  that  poor  woman  had  feel 
ings,  and  it  is  hard  to  deny  that  Mr.  Webster  was  responsible 
for  her  murder.  I  saw  those  poor  colored  people  in  Southac 
street  to-day,  in  wild  distress  and  alarm  at  the  report  that  a 
slave-hunter  was  in  town,  and  no  one  who  sees  such  things, 
and  realizes  them,  can  like  Mr.  Webster." 

"  0  Mr.  Harrington,  indeed  I  can't  agree  with  you,"  re 
turned  Mrs.  Atkins  with  feeble  excitement.  "  These  things 
are  unpleasant,  I  admit,  but  Mr.  Webster  is  a  great  states 
man,  you  know — oh,  there  never  was  such  a  statesman  as  Mr. 
Webster  1  He's  perfectly  splendid,  and  I'm  sure  if  he  was  to 
have  all  the  negroes  in  the  country  killed — the  horrid  crea 
tures  ! — I'm  sure  I  would  like  him  just  as  much  as  ever. 
Indeed  I  would,  and  so  would  Mr.  Atkins,  0  if  you'd  only 
heard  Mr.  Webster  at  Faueuil  Hall  last  Saturday,  I  know 
you'd  have  been  converted.  He  didn't  say  a  word  about  politics, 
and  he  was  so  majestic,  and  so  venerable  and  so — so  pleasant 
— oh,  it  was  beautiful  !" 

And  Mrs.  Atkins  fanned  herself  in  a  feeble  fluster  of  admi 
ration  for  Mr.  Webster,  whose  speech,  by  the  way,  had  been 
very  decrepit,  rambling,  and  dull,  with  only  a  touch  here  and 
there  of  the  true  Websterian  massive  power  and  energy. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Atkins,"  said  Witherlee  in  his  cool,  polite,  pro 
voking  way,  "  for  my  part,  I  don't  understand  how  you  can 
admire  Mr.  Webster's  private  life,  I'm  sure." 

This  change  in  the  venue,  as  the  lawyers  say,  and  this  im 
pudent  assumption  that  Mrs.  Atkins  had  been  admiring  Mr. 
Webster's  private  life,  were  both  highly  characteristic  ,of  the 
good  Fernando.  His  remark  was  not  prompted  by  even  the 
pale  esthetic  anti-slavery,  which  he  sometimes  indulged  in,  but 
by  the  simple  desire  to  say  something  which  he  knew  would 
aggravate  the  lady.  And  Mrs.  Atkins  was  aggravated,  for 
she  colored  and  fanned  herself  nervously. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  refer  to,  Mr.  Witherlee,"  she 
remarked,  pettishly. 


HAEEINGTON.  255 

"Why,  you  know  what  Mr.  Webster's  habits  are,  Mrs. 
Atkins,"  said  Fernando,  lifting  his  eyebrows  with  an  air  of 
painful  regret,'  in  which  there  was  also  a  bilious  sneer.  "You 
are  aware  of  his  excessive  fondness  for  old  Otard.  And  then 
his  relations  to  women  " 

"I  don't  care,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Atkins,  bridling  with 
faint  excitement.  "  I  don't  care  at  all,  and  I  think  that  God 
gave  Mr.  Webster  some  faults  to  remind  us  that  he  is 
mortal." 

This  was  smart  for  Mrs.  Atkins,  and  Witherlee,  somewhat 
nonplused,  turned  pale  with  spite,  and  lifted  his  eyebrows, 
and  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a  manner  that  was  equivalent 
to  saying — Oh,  if  you  talk  in  that  way,  Mrs.  Atkins,  there's  no 
use  in  wasting  words  upon  you.  His  manner  would  have 
been  ineffably  maddening  to  most  men,  but  women  are  less 
easily  transported  beyond  control,  and  M^.  Atkins,  conscious 
that  she  had  the  advantage  of  Mr.  Witherlee  in  her  reply, 
fanned  herself  equably  and  took  no  notice  of  his  insulting 
gesture. 

"  For  my  part,"  said  Harrington,  gravely  offended  by 
Witherlee's  remarks,  "  I  deprecate  any  reflections  upon  Mr. 
Webster's  private  life.  It  seems  to  me  that  our  concern  is 
with  his  public  acts,  and  not  with  his  personal  habits." 

"  Oh,  you're  a  gentleman,  Mr.  Harrington,"  said  Mrs.  Atkins, 
in  a  tone  that  implied  that  Mr.  Witherlee  was  not. 

Witherlee  looked  at  Mrs.  Atkins  with  parted  lips,  and  still, 
opaque  eyes,  white  with  spleen,  but  perfectly  cool. 

"  Now,  fellow-citizens,  what's  the  row  ?"  blithely  said 
Muriel,  approaching  the  circle  with  her  mother. 

"  Oh,  cousin  Muriel  I"  exclaimed  Julia,  "  how  can  you  talk 
in  that  way.  It's  so  low  !" 

"So  it  is,  dear,"  archly  replied  Muriel,  "  shockingly  low, 
and  you  must  be  warned  by  my  example." 

Julia  looked  a  little  foolish,  and  smiled. 

"  We  were  discussing,  Mr.  Webster,"  said  Fernando,  tran 
quilly. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Webster,"  said  Muriel ;  "  I  used  to  admire  him 
very  much  when  I  was  a  girl." 


256  HARRINGTON. 

"  It's  a  pity  you  don't  now,  Muriel,"  said  Mrs.  Atkins,  "for 
he  deserves  to  be  admired,  I'm.  sure." 

"  Yes,  aunt,  but  I  never  recovered  from  a  shock  he  gave 
me  in  my  *  sallet  days,  when  I  was  green  in  judgment,' "  replied 
Muriel. 

"  A  shock  ?  Dear  me  !  I  can't  imagine  Mr.  Webster 
shocking  anybody,"  drawled  Caroline,  with  weak  surprise. 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  Muriel,  "  Mr.  Webster  shocked  me, 
like  a  torpedo  fish,  and  I'll  tell  you  how.  There  was  a  grand 
party,  at  which  he  was  present.  Mother  and  I  were  there, 
and  I,  who  was  a  girl  of  fourteen,  had  no  eyes  for  anybody 
but  Mr.  Webster.  My  great  desire  was  to  hear  him  say 
something,  for  I  thought  anything  he  said  would  be  remark 
able,  and  worth  putting  in  an  album,  so  I  followed  him  where- 
ever  he  went  through  the  crowded  drawing-rooms,  with  my 
ears  wide  open,  eagerly  listening  for  the  golden  sentence.  But 
Mr.  Webster  was  in  a  very  silent  humor,  and  wandered  about 
without  speaking  to  anybody.  By  and  by  he  went  up-stairs 
to  the  supper  room,  and  I  followed  him,  in  reverent  admira 
tion  and  expectancy.  He  approached  the  supper-table,  bowed 
solemnly  to  some  ladies  near  by,  took  a  fork,  and  began  to 
eat  from  a  dish  of  pickled  oysters.  After  he  had  eaten  three 
or  four,  he  paused,  with  an  oyster  on  his  fork,  turned  his  great 
head  slowly  and  majestically  to  the  ladies,  and  opened  his 
lips.  The  golden  sentence  was  coming,  and  I  listened  breath 
lessly.  Now  what  do  you  think  he  said  ?" 

".Well,  what  ?"  inquired  Harrington,  after  a  hushed  pause. 

"  Said  he,  in  his  deep,  grum,  orotund,  bass  voice,  like  the 
low  rolling  of  distant  summer  thunder,  'What  nice  little 
oysters  these  are  !' " 

Every  one  burst  into  hearty  laughter,  as  Muriel  mimicked 
the  tones  of  the  Websterian  ejaculation. 

11  That  was  my  reward  for  so  long  waiting,"  she  continued, 
when  the  laughter  had  subsided.  "  That  was  my  golden 
sentence,  which,  of  course,  never  went  from  the  tablets  of 
memory  to  the  album.  It  was  an  immense  shock  to  know 
that  great  statesmen  said  such  things  as  common  people 
say/' 


HARRINGTON.  257 

"  And  you  heard  nothing  else  ?"  said  Went  worth,  vastly 
amused  at  the  anecdote. 

"  Not  another  word.  He  devoured  the  oyster,  and  wan 
dered  down-stairs  again,  leaving  with  me  the  ponderous  sprat 
which  the  flavor  of  the  mollusc  had  conjured  from  the  ocean 
depths  of  his  mighty  mind." 

They  began  to  laugh  again,  when  a  ring  at  the  door-bell 
was  heard. 

"  That's  papa  !"  cried  Julia. 

Papa  it  was — come  for  his  family.  He  came  in  presently, 
robust  and  decisive,  purseproud,  as  usual,  and  smiling,  made 
his  salutations  with  a  certain  rude  courtesy,  and  took  a 
chair. 

"  Well,  young  ladies/'  he  burst  out  presently,  "  so  you  went 
to  hear  Phillips  harangue  this  evening." 

"  Yes,  uncle,"  returned  Muriel,  sportively,  "  we  had  you  to 
keep  us  in  countenance  you  know." 

"  Indeed  I  Well,  I'm  sorry  if  my  example  incited  you. 
Lafitte,  our  Southern  visitor,  thought  it  would  be  amusing  to 
hear  some  of  the  fanatical  blather,  and  so  I  took  him  along, 
and,  just  by  chance,  he  got  a  dose  of  Phillips." 

"  I  hope  the  dose  did  him  good,  Lemuel,  and  you  also," 
said  Mrs.  Eastman,  with  some  spirit. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  deny  Phillips's  power,  Serena,"  replied  the 
merchant,  carelessly.  "It's  all  very  fine,  and  if  he  were  in 
the  Whig  party,  he'd  be  a  man  of  mark.  It's  a  pity,  as  I 
always  say,  to  see  such  wonderful  ability  wasted." 

"  How  did  Mr.  Lafitte  enjoy  it,  sir  ?"  asked  Emily, 
blandly. 

"  Oh,  he — well,  I  was  rather  amused  at  the  way  he  took  it," 
responded  Mr.  Atkins,  laughing.  "  It  quite  upset  him,  and  in 
his  hot,  Southern  way,  he  said  Phillips  ought  to  be  shot.  In 
fact,  I  thought  Lafitte  was  rather  thin-skinned  about  it, 
though,  to  be  sure,  Phillips's  words  are  enough  to  try  a  saint. 
Anyhow,  Lafitte  felt  'em  rankle." 

"  He  must  certainly,  to  have  had  so  murderous  a  spirit 
aroused  in  him,"  remarked  Mrs.  Eastman. 

"  Murderous  ?     Upon  my  word,  Serena,"  replied  the  mer- 


258  HARRINGTON. 

chant,  bluffly,  "  I  think  his  spirit  was  not  unworthy  of  a  man 
of  high  tone,  and  I  shouldn't  blame  him  at  all  if  he  had  pis 
tolled  your  orator  on  the  spot." 

"  Like  the  assassin  who  bludgeoned  Otis  in  Revolutionary 
times,"  remarked  Witherlee,  blandly  aggravating. 

"  Oh,  you  young  men  are  all  tainted  with  fanaticism/'  re 
turned  Mr.  Atkins,  reddening.  "  When  you're  older  you'll 
know  better.  I'm  always  sorry  to  see  young  men  of  talent, 
like  Mr.  Harrington  here,  misled  by  Phillips's  eloquent 
abstractions.  But  live  and  learn,  live  and  learn." 

"  I  hope,  Mr.  Atkins,  I  shall  not  live  to  learn  distrust*  in 
the  statesmanship  that  reprobates  slavery,"  said  Harrington, 
urbanely. 

"  Statesmanship  !"  contemptuously  exclaimed  the  merchant. 
"  Do  you  call  such  incendiary  measures  as  Phillips  and  Parker 
advise,  statesmanship  ?  Sedition  and  treason  1  I  declare,  Mr. 
Harrington — and  I  say  this  coolly,  in  sober  earnest — that 
if  any  one  were  to  shoot  down  Phillips  and  Parker  in  the 
street,  and  I  were  summoned  as  a  Grand  Juror  to  pass  upon 
the  act,  I  would  refuse  to  indict  him  on  the  ground  that  it 
was  justifiable  homicide.  Yes,  sir,  justifiable  homicide.  I 
have  said  it  a  hundred  times,  and  I  now  say  it  again.  What 
do  you  think  of  that,  Mr.  Harrington  ?" 

Harrington  met  the  insulting  exultation  of  the  merchant's 
gaze,  with  a  look  quiet  and  firm. 

"  Since  you  ask  me  what  I  think  of  it,  Mr.  Atkins,"  he  re 
plied,  tranquilly,  "  you  must  permit  me  to  say  that  I  think  it 
atrocious." 

"  And  so  do  I,"  said  Mrs.  Eastman,  crimson  with  indigna 
tion.  "  And  you  ought  to  blush,  Lemuel,  to  say  that  you 
would  give  legality  to  a  ferocious  murder." 

"  Ought  I  ?"  replied  the  merchant,  coolly.  "  Well,  I  don't, 
Serena.  In  such  a  case,  killing's  no  murder.  Murder,  in 
deed  !  Ha  I  men  like  those  to  dare  to  wage  war  on  the  insti 
tutions  of  their  country  1" 

"  What  institutions  do  they  wage  war  upon,  Mr.  Atkins  ?" 
asked  Wentworth,  civilly. 

"  Well,  sir,  slavery  for  one,"  excitedly  returned  the  mer- 


HARRINGTON. 


259 


chant.  "  An  institution  expressly  sanctioned  by  the  Consti 
tution,  and  on  the  protection  of  which  the  safety  of  this  Union 
depends,  Mr.  Wentworth.  An  institution,  sir,  which  no 
statesman  would  think  of  assailing  for  a  moment.  Where  can 
you  point  to  one  statesman,  worthy  of  the  name,  from  Web 
ster  back  to  Burke,  or  as  far  back  as  you  like  to  go,  that  has 
ever  assailed  a  great  politico-economical  institution  like  slavery? 
You're  a  scholar,  I'm  told,  Mr.  Harrington  ;  now  just  answer 
me  that  question." 

"  Mr.  Atkins,  I  am  surprised  beyond  measure  that  you 
should  ask  me  such  a  question,"  calmly  replied  Harrington. 
"  The  real  difficulty  would  be  to  name  any  statesman  of  the  first 
eminence  that  has  ever  defended  slavery.  You  mention  Burke 
and  Webster.  Why,  sir,  the  whole  record  of  Mr.  Webster's  life 
up  to  1850,  is  against  slavery.  It  is  only  eight  years  ago  since 
he  stood  up  in  Faneuil  Hall,  and  said — I  quote  his  very  words, 
for  I  have  been  lately  reading  them — '  What/  said  he,  *  when 
all  the  civilized  world  is  opposed  to  slavery  ;  when  morality  de 
nounces  it  ;  when  Christianity  denounces  it ;  when  everything 
respected,  everything  good,  bears  one  united  witness  against  it,  is 
it  for  America — America,  the  land  of  Washington,  the  model 
republic  of  the  world — is  it  for  America  to  come  to  its  assist 
ance,  and  to  insist  that  the  maintenance  of  slavery  is  necessary 
to  the  support  of  her  institutions  1'  Those  are  Daniel  Webster's 
very  words,  sir,  and  yet  you  ask  when  he  ever  assailed  slavery  I" 

"  Good  !  good  !"  cried  Mrs.  Eastman,  amidst  a  general 
murmur  of  satisfaction  from  all  but  the  Atkinses.  Mr.  Atkins 
sat  dumb,  wincing  under  the  crushing  blow  of  the  quotation. 
Their  new-born  zeal  for  slavery  and  kidnapping  gave  the  Bos 
ton  merchants  of  that  period  terribly  short  memories. 

"  Faneuil  Hall,  crowded  with  Whig  merchants,  answered 
those  words  with  six-and-twenty  cheers.  Have  you  forgotten 
them,  Mr.  Atkins  ?"  said  Harrington.  "  Now  the  cheers 
are  all  for  slavery.  Now,  in  defiance  of  your  own  statesman's 
declaration,  you  assert  slavery  to  be  necessary  to  the  mainte 
nance  of  your  Union.  And  now,  because  Phillips  and  Parker 
wage  war  upon  slavery,  as  Webster  did  then,  you  would  jus 
tify  their  murder." 


260  HARRINGTON. 

Still  dumb,  with  his  strong  lip  nervously  twitching,  the  mer 
chant  sat,  whelmed  in  utter  confusion. 

"  You  mentioned  Burke,  Mr.  Atkins,"  continued  Harrington, 
"  and  since  you  have  mentioned  him,  let  me  ask  if  you  have  for 
gotten  his  speech  to  the  electors  of  Bristol  ?  Listen  to  the 
words  of  the  greatest  statesman  since  Bacon — for  they,  too,  are 
fresh  in  my  memory.  '  I  have  no  idea/  said  Edmund  Burke — '  I 
have  no  idea  of  a  liberty  unconnected  with  honesty  and  justice. 
Nor  do  I  believe  that  any  good  constitutions  of  government  or 
of  freedom  can  find  it  necessary  for  their  security  to  doom  any 
part  of  the  people  to  a  permanent  slavery.  Such  a  constitu 
tion  of  freedom,  if  such  can  be,  is  in  effect  no  more  than  another 
name  for  the  tyranny  of  the  strongest  faction.'  Those  are  the 
words  of  Burke,  sir.  If  you  doubt,  Mrs.  Eastman  will  get  the 
volume  from  the  library,  and  you  shall  read  them  for  yourself." 

"No  consequence,  Mr.  Harrington,  no  consequence,"  returned 
tj>ie  merchant,  abruptly  rising.  "  We  will  not  discuss  the  matter 
further,  sir.  Come,  Mrs.  Atkins,  it  is  time  for  us  to  go  home." 

"  0  dear  me,"  drawled  Mrs.  Atkins,  leaving  her  seat, 
"  you  gentlemen  are  so  fond  of  these  horrid  politics.  Come, 
children,  come." 

They  all  rose,  with  a  flutter  and  rustle  of  movement. 
Presently,  while  the  Atkins  ladies,  cloaked  and  bonneted, 
were  moving  toward  the  door,  Harrington  approached  Mr. 
Atkins,  who  had  gone  into  the  entry  for  his  hat  and  returned, 
and  now  stood,  cold,  harsh  and  moody,  apart  from  the  rest 
of  the  company. 

"  I  trust,  Mr.  Atkins,"  said  the  young  man,  with  grave 
courtesy,  "  that  you  are  not  offended  by  my  plain  speaking  on 
these  matters,  or  at  least  that  you  will  not  understand  me  to 
intend  any  disrespect  to  you  personally." 

The  merchant  glared  at  him  with  a  sullen  and  insolent  smile. 

"  Mr.  Harrington,"  he  hissed  hoarsely,  bending  his  face  close 
to  the  young  man's,  "  such  sentiments  as  yours  find  favor  with 
my  sister  and  niece.  It  is  politic  in  you  to  adopt  them,  and 
so  curry  favor  with  the  one  that  you  may  mend  your  poverty 
by  a  rich  marriage  with  the  other." 

And  with  these  brutal  words,  the  merchant  threw  back  his 


HAEKINGTON.  261  • 

head,  glaring  at  the  young  man  with  open  mouth,  and  a  fright 
ful  smile  on  his  blanched  visage,  which  was  at  that  moment 
the  visage  of  a  demon.  Harrington  met  that  glare  with  a  look 
of  such  majestic  severity,  such  a  stern  glory  of  anger  lighting 
his  calm  eyes  and  brow,  that  the  merchant's  face  fell,  and  he 
slunk  a  pace  away.  The  company  had  left  the  parlor,  and 
were  talking  in  the  hall,  as  Mr.  Atkins  had  made  his  reply, 
but  Mrs.  Eastman,  who  was  standing  nearest  the  parlor  door, 
had  heard  it  all,  and  before  Harrington  could  make  any 
rejoinder,  if  any  he  intended,  she  came  quickly  in,  shutting 
the  door  behind  her,  her  silver  tresses  trembling  and  her  beau 
tiful  face  flushed  with  haughty  and  indignant  emotion. 

"  Permit  me  to  tell  you,  Lemuel  Atkins,"  said  she,  confront 
ing  her  brother,  and  speaking  in  a  proud  and  steady  voice, 
"  that  the  sentiments  which  you  have  not  the  wit  to  controvert, 
nor  the  manhood  to  entertain,  were  held  by  Mr.  Harrington 
before  we  had  the  honor  of  his  friendship,  and  let  me  further 
say  to  you  that  while  the  choice  of  my  daughter's  heart,  be  he 
rich  or  poor,  shall  be  my  choice  also,  I  should  esteem  it  the 
best  hour  of  my  life  which  gave  me  assurance  that  she  would 
wed  a  man  worthier  of  her  than  any  man  I  know,  and  dear  to 
me  as  my  own  son  !  Take  that  home  with  you,  sir,  and  do 
us  the  honor  to  believe  that  in  this  house  we  value  gentlemen 
for  what  they  are,  and  not  for  what  they  own." 

He  shrank  from  the  serene  and  haughty  magnetism  of  her 
manner,  and  cowering  under  her  rebuke,  slunk  away  to  the 
door  without  a  word,  and  went  into  the  hall.  Harrington 
stood  like  one  thunder-struck,  the  slow  thrill  her  words  gave 
him  running  through  his  veins,  while  she  swept  across  the 
room  to  close  the  door  the  merchant  had  left  ajar,  and  turning 
again,  came  quickly  toward  him,  her  beautiful  face  pale  and 
wet  with  calmly-flowing  tears. 

"  Tell  me,  John,"  she  said,  seizing  his  hands,  and  speaking 
in  low,  rapid  tones,  tremulous  with  emotion — "  this  pitiful 
insult  moved  me  to  anger,  and  in  my  anger  I  have  spoken  the 
true  thought  of  my  heart — tell  me  that  so  dear  a  hope  is  not 
so  vain.  Oh,  confide  in  me  as  in  your  own  mother,  for  no 
mother  could  love  you  more  tenderly  than  I  do." 


262  HARRINGTON. 

In  the  spiritual  passion  of  the  moment,  all  cold  prudence, 
all  reticence,  melted,  and  fell  away.  He  clasped  her  in  his 
arms,  and  with  sweet  and  sorrowful  emotion,  kissed  her  fair 
brow  and  silver  hair. 

"  I  love  her,  my  mother,"  he  murmured,  sadly  smiling — "  I 
love  her,  but  the  love  I  once  thought  mine,  is  not  for  me." 

"  You  love  her — you  love  Muriel,  and  she  does  not  love 
you  !  I  do  not  believe  it — I  cannot.  John,  at  my  age 
women  are  not  easily  deceived — they  do  not  mistake  the 
tokens  of  love.  Take  care  that  you  are  sure  of  what  you 
say" 

"  I  am  sure,  mother,  I  am  sure,"  he  interrupted,  in  a  low 
voice.  "  Her  accepted  lover  told  me  of  his  happiness  to-day. 
Do  not  ask  me  his  name.  They  themselves  will  tell  you. 
Hush  !" 

The  hall-door  was  heard  closing,  and  the  voices  talking 
gaily  in  the  hall.  She  looked  at  him  wonderingly  for  an  in 
stant,  then  quickly  pressed  her  lips  to  his  drooping  forehead, 
and  glided  from  his  arms  to  the  back-door  of  the  parlor, 
out  of  which  she  passed  up  to  her  chamber,  as  the  others 
came  in. 

Witherlee  had  departed  as  the  escort  of  Miss  Julia,  his 
natural  impudence  perfectly  ignoring  the  rebuff  he  had  re 
ceived  from  her  mother. 

"  Where's  Mrs.  Eastman  ?"  said  Emily. 

"  She  went  out  as  you  came  in,"  replied  Harrington. 

"  John,"  said  Muriel,  coming  up  to  him,  and  playfully  shak 
ing  her  finger.  "  You  quite  discomfited  poor  Uncle  Lemuel, 
and  he  went  off  as  cross  as  a  bear." 

"  What  a  memory  Harrington  has  !"  laughed  Wentworth. 
"  To  think  that  he  gave  him  Burke  and  Webster  plump  I 
That  was  a  double-barrelled  shot,  by  Jupiter  !" 

"  Oh,  it  was  capital,"  chimed  in  Emily. 

"  Faith,"  said  Harrington,  "  it  was  simply  lucky.  I  hap 
pened  to  have  been  reading  the  speeches  lately,  and  so  had 
the  passages  by  heart.  But  I  wonder  at  Mr.  Atkins  making 
such  an  absurd  assertion." 

"  Oh,  he  remembers  nothing  previous  to  1850,"  said  Muriel. 


HARRINGTON.  263 

"These  people  are  perfectly  wild  with  their  Webster  and 
Fugitive  Slave  Law  mania,  and  they  repeat  certain  phrases 
until  their  organs  of  intelligence  are  ossified,  as  Goethe  says. 
Come,  Emily,  let  us  have  some  music." 

"  Yes,  do,  Emily,"  said  Went  worth,  half  absently,  and 
forgetting  for  a  moment,  as  was  frequent  with  him,  the  state 
of  affairs  between  him  and  Miss  Ames. 

Emily  looked  at  him  with  cool  serenity,  as  if  she  thought 
his  request  impertinent.  Wentworth,  recalled  to  himself,  was 
maddened. by  the  look  and  all  it  brought  him,  and  turning  to 
conceal  his  anger,  wandered  away  to  the  piano,  humming  an 
air. 

"  Come,  Emily,  we  must  go  home,  for  it's  getting  late,"  said 
Harrington  ;  "so  sing  us  that  sweet  song  of  Korner's — the 
1  Good  Night '  song — to  sooth  us  to  dreams." 

Emily  smiled  with  superb  languor,  and  half-reluctant,  for 
she  was  not  in  a  songful  mood,  swept  over  to  the  piano,  look 
ing  steadily  as  she  advanced  at  Wentworth,  who  was  lean 
ing  carelessly  against  the  instrument,  and  regarding  her  with 
stern  eyes. 

"  I  believe,"  said  she,  listlessly,  as  she  sunk  upon  the  music- 
xtool,  and  with  a  parting  glance  of  cold  hauteur  dropped  her 
eyes  from  the  steady  gaze  of  Wentworth,  "  I  believe  that  the 
piano  is  out  of  tune." 

"  Do  you  know  why,  Miss  Ames  ?"  asked  Wentworth  sud 
denly,  in  a  voice  at  once  so  quiet  and  so  marked  that  both 
Muriel  and  Harrington  looked  at  him. 

"  Because,"  he  said  with  bitter  and  terrible  significance,  a 
scowl  darkening  his  features — "  because  it  has  been  played 
upon  1" 

Muriel  and  Harrington  started  with  a  low  exclamation,  and 
glanced  first  at  Wentworth,  and  then  at  Emily,  with  mute 
amazement.  A  smile  arose  on  Wentworth's  face,  and  mingled 
with  his  scowl,  as  he  slowly  walked  away.  Emily  rose  from 
her  seat,  and  gazed  after  him,  her  form  dilated  to  its  full 
height,  her  bosom  heaving,  and  her  face  and  neck  suffused 
with  an  indignant  scarlet  glow.  Turning,  Wentworth  looked 
haughtily  at  her  for  a  moment,  and  then,  utterly  reckless,  with 


HARRINGTON. 

heart  and  brain  on  fire,  laughed  a  bitter  and  scornful  laugh, 
and  moved  toward  the  parlor  door.  Emily's  lip  quivered,  her 
color  faded  to  pallor,  and  bursting  into  a  passionate  flood  of 
tears,  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  swept  by  the 
other  door  from  the  room. 

Muriel  and  Harrington  had  stood  transfixed  with  astonish 
ment  up  to  this  moment,  but  as  they  saw  both  Emily  and 
Went  worth  leave  the  parlor,  they  recovered  with  a  start. 

"  Stay,  Wentworth,"  cried  Harrington,  rushing  to  the  door, 
and  "  Emily,  Emily,"  cried  Muriel,  flying  after  her  friend. 

But  Harrington  reached  the  hall,  just  as  the  front  door 
slammed  at  the  heels  of  Wentworth,  and  tearing  it  open,  he  be 
held  him  running  up  the  street  like  a  madman,  while  Muriel, 
bounding  up-stairs  after  Emily,  saw  her  vanish  into  her  cham 
ber,  and  heard  the  lock  of  her  door  click  behind  her. 

Both  returned  to  the  parlor  at  the  same  moment,  and  ad 
vancing  toward  each  other,  pale,  agitated,  and  almost  petri 
fied  with  wonder  at  the  lightning-like  suddenness  and  inexpli 
cable  character  of  this  incident,  gazed  into  each  other's  faces. 
The  affair  was  like  a  flash  on  a  dark  landscape,  giving  a  vague 
glimpse  of  some  mysterious  form  there,  and  vanishing  before 
its  nature  was  revealed. 

"  Good  Heavens,  John  !  what  does  this  mean  ?"  exclaimed 
Muriel,  breaking  the  lonely  stillness  of  the  lighted  parlor. 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  murmured,  vacantly  gazing  at  her. 
"  Is  Richard  mad  ?" 

She  put  her  hands  to  her  bosom  to  repress  its  throbbings, 
and  sank  into  a  large  chair  near  her.  Both  were  silent  for 
some  minutes,  each  trying  to  think,  with  a  whirling  brain, 
what  this  could  possibly  mean. 

"  What  a  singular  day  this  has  been  !"  murmured  Harring 
ton  at  length,  as  behind  this  last  incident  the  tableau  of  its 
many-passioned  hours  rose  in  his  mind. 

"  Singular,  indeed  I"  replied  Muriel,  in  a  low  voice,  "  and 
how  singularly  and  sadly  it  ends  !" 

"  Not  so,"  he  replied  with  sweet  gravity.  "  Let  it  end  in 
our  good  night,  which  is  always  happy  with  affection  and 
peace.  We  will  dismiss  this  scene,  Muriel.  To-morrow  we 


HARRINGTON.  265 

can  think  more  clearly,  and  we  will  know  its  meaning.  Mean 
while,  good  night." 

She  rose  from  her  seat,  and  they  came  toward  each  other 
with  outstretched  hands.  It  was  strange,  but  for  the  first 
time  in  al)  their  long  acquaintance,  their  hands  passed  each 
other,  his  arms  encircled  her,  and  hers  rested  on  his,  with  her 
hands  upon  his  shoulders.  A  trance  seemed  to  glide  upon 
them.  The  lighted  room  was  very  still ;  the  sad  wind  sighed 
in  the  hush  around  the  dwelling  ;  and  gazing  into  each  other's 
faces,  with  a  vague  thrill  remotely  stirring  in  the  peace  of 
their  spirits,  they  stood  motionless,  as  in  a  dream. 

Thus  for  a  little  while,  which  seemed  long,  lasted  their  com 
munion.  Earthly  cares  and  hopes  forgotten,  earthly  strifes 
removed  and  dim,  and  the  sorrow  of  their  hopeless  love  so 
chastened  and  sanctified  in  the  nobleness  of  mutual  sacrifice 
that  it  knew  no  touch  of  pain. 

A  long,  mysterious  sigh  of  the  night-wind  breathed  around 
the  dwelling,  and  stole  into  the  peace  of  their  minds.  Har 
rington  smiled,  and  his  heart  rose  in  benediction  as  he  silently 
laid  his  hands  upon  the  fair  and  sacred  head  of  his  beloved. 

"  The  night  deepens  on,  Muriel,  and  we  must  part,"  he 
gently  murmured. 

"  Yes,  we  must  part,"  she  answered,  in  a  low  tone,  "  and  our 
parting  to-night  seems  like  a  type  of  the  greater  parting." 

"  To  me  the  same,"  he  murmured,  in  a  rapt  voice.  "  Never 
before  has  it  seemed  so  like  parting  forever.  I  might  feel  thus 
when  passing  tlirough  the  dusks  of  death,  with  the  dream  of 
all  earth's  sweet  and  vanished  hours  fading  in  visions  of  the 
life  to  come." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  in  which  the  cadence  of  his  words 
seemed  to  linger  like  the  ghost  of  music  on  the  air. 

"  But  we  shall  meet  there,"  she  said.  "  We  who  have 
passed  so  many  holy  and  poetic  hours  here-^-we  shall  meet 
there.  The  earthly  '  good-night '  is  but  the  prelude  to  '  good- 
morning.'  So  shall  the  last  farewell  of  earth  prelude  the  hea 
venly  greeting." 

"  Yes,  we  shall  meet  there,"  he  murmured.  "  Have  we  not 
met  there  already — friends,  true  and  loving,  dwellers  in  Hea- 

12 


266  HARRINGTON. 

ven's  happy  star  !  Who  shall  gainsay  the  alchemist  who 
wrote  that  '  Heaven  hath  in  it  this  scene  of  earth.'  The  true 
life  is  there,  and  our  existence  here  is  but  a  fleeting  hour  of 
absence  from  our  heavenly  home.  Yes,  we  shall  meet  there, 
reclothed  with  the  divine  memory,  and  keeping  the  memory  of 
all  we  wrought  and  were  on  earth,  that  earth  might  fulfill  the 
large  purposes  of  God — meet  there,  old  friends,  true  and  lov 
ing,  changed,  and  yet  the  same." 

Again  there  was  a  pause  of  trancing  silence,  filled  with  the 
floating  ghost  of  visionary  music,  keeping  the  sweet  tradition 
of  his  words,  and  telling  to  the  soul  what  music  tells.  Again 
around  the  lonely  dwelling  swelled  tlie  wind's  mysterious  eolian 
sigh,  rising  in  inarticulate  wild  prophecies,  and  wailing  som 
brely  away. 

"  Good  night,  good  night,"  he  softly  murmured,  with  a 
movement  of  departure. 

"  Good  night,"  she  answered,  in  a  low  and  fervent  voice, 
"  friend,  true  and  loving,  good  night." 

A  sense  of  heavenly  tenderness  rose  trembling  in  their 
souls,  and  with  meeting  lips  they  were  clasped  in  each  other's 
arms.  Oh,  solemn  ecstasy  of  prayer  and  peace  !  Oh,  mystic 
passion  of  a  veiled  true  love  ! 

Was  it  a  dream  ?  She  was  alone.  Standing  in  the  soli 
tary  room,  her  brow  bent  upon  her  hand,  the  dim  sweetness 
of  the  vision  in  her  mind,  she  floated  away  in  vague,  delicious 
reverie.  Soft  light  fled  pulsing  through  her  spirit ;  a  sacred 
and  passionless  perfume  floated  in  her  brain  ;  a  celestial  ten 
derness  tranced  her  soul.  He  loved  another  ;  his  love  for  her 
was  the  love  of  friend  for  friend — no  more  ;  but  she  was  hap 
pier,  holier,  nobler  to  have  inspired  such  love,  and  stronger 
than  ever  to  resign  him  now,  and  to  live  her  life  alone.  So 
thinking,  like  one  lost  in  a  blissful  dream,  she  glided  away  to 
her  pillow. 

Was  it  a  dream  ?  How  strangely  sweet  and  vague  1  He 
was  wandering  noiselessly  down  the  shadowy  street  in  the  wan 
moonlight,  with  the  cold  air  blowing  on  his  cheek,  as  void  of 
coldness  as  though  he  had  been  a  phantom,  and  not  a  man. 
When  had  he  left  her — how  ?  but  his  thoughts  recalled  only 


HAEEINGTON.  267 

the  peaceful  passion  of  that  moment,  and  between  the  lighted 
room  and  the  moonlit  street,  there  was  a  blank  chasm 
Dear  moment,  never  to  come  again,  dear  magic  flower  that 
bloomed  in  the  sad  garden  of  his  love,  never  to  be  renewed, 
yet  sweetening  life  and  life's  submissive  sacrifice  forever. 
Dear  friend,  true  friend  and  sweet,  whose  clasp,  whose  sacred 
kiss — the  first,  the  last — gave  tokens  of  no  earthly  love,  but 
rich  memorials  and  previsions  of  the  love  that  makes  the  hills 
of  heaven  more  fair  !  So  ran  the  voiceless  music  of  his 
thought,  while  memory  kept  the  phantom  form  of  the 
beloved  one  in  visioned  light  and  odor.  To-morrow  he  would 
meet  her,  and  the  day  after,  and  on  for  many  a  day  through 
months  and  years  to  come,  but  never  again  on  the  height  of 
the  ideal  and  intimate  communion  where  their  spirits  had  met 
and  said  farewell.  Years  hence,  and  she  a  happy  wife  and 
mother,  how  softly  this  hour  would  glide  from  the  innermost 
holiest  cloister  of  memory,  and  lend  a  more  pensive  and  tender 
grace  to  her  beauty,  and  shed  a  finer  and  more  ethereal  essence 
on  her  happiness  !  Consecrating  her  forever,  its  consecration 
would  rest  on  his  own  life,  pledging  him  more  firmly  to  lofty 
and  generous  effort,  and  sanctifying  all  low  toils  and  struggles 
as  with  the  presence  of  an  angel. 

Softly,  and  without  noise,  he  entered  his  dark  and  silent 
house.  A  moment,  and  he  had  lit  his  shaded  lamp,  and  con 
scious  of  the  sleepless  vigil  in  his  mind,  he  opened  the  volume 
which  held  for  him  the  rich  lore  of  Yerulam,  his  unfailing 
pleasure,  and  the  comfort  of  his  saddest  hours,  and  sat  down  to 
read  the  night  away.  Within  all  was  still.  Without,  the 
wind  swept  drearily  through  the  wan  and  shadowy  street  around 
the  silent  dwelling,  the  lilac  odors  had  died,  and  the  pale  moon 
light  shone  with  the  blue  glimmer  of  swords. 


268  HARRINGTON. 


CHAPTER  XYI. 

THE    GLIMPSES     OP    THE    MOON. 

THE  gibbous  moon  hung  midway  down  the  zenith  over  the 
vast  and  sleeping  city,  a  lob  of  spectral  light  in  the  cold,  blue 
heavens,  over  a  fantastic  brood  of  dreams.  Daniel  Webster's 
liegemen  and  victims  slept,  and  Black  Dan  himself,  liegeman 
and  victim  to  a  darker  power  than  he,  slept  also  ;  but  the 
liegemen  and  victims  of  Dan  Cupid  had  a  more  uncertain 
chance  of  slumber,  and  four  among  them  at  least  had  wakeful 
eyes  that  night  as  the  moon  was  going  down. 

As  the  moon  was  going  down,  its  pale  gleam  fell  upon  the 
pallid  face  and  disordered  form  of  Wentworth.  He  had  risen 
from  his  bed,  and  was  sitting,  half  dressed,  at  his  open  chamber 
window,  in  an  upper  story  of  his  father's  house  on  Tremont 
street,  and  brooding  mournfully  on  the  misshapen  planet,  which 
hung  like  a  huge,  bulging  drop  of  watery  lustre  above  the  roofs 
beyond  the  Common  trees.  His  bed,  all  tossed  and  tumbled, 
glimmered  in  white  confusion  behind  him,  and  faint  rays  of 
moonlight  touched  the  lines  of  the  gilt  frames  upon  the  walls, 
the  books  upon  their  shelves,  the  ghostly  busts  and  statuettes 
around  the  chamber,  and  the  dark,  goblin  shapes  of  the  dis 
arranged  furniture.  Within  the  chamber  all  was  dusk  disorder, 
and  a  dusk  disorder  was  within  the  clouded  mind  and  aching 
heart  of  its  tenant. 

Passion  had  spent  its  fury  ;  the  frenzy  and  the  fever  of  his 
heart  were  allayed  ;  and  something  like  the  wan  tranquillity 
of  the  night  had  succeeded.  It  was  all  over  ;  the  play  was 
played  ;  she  had  lured  him  on  to  love  her  ;  she  had  trampled 
on  his  love  ;  he  had  repaid 'her  with  one  bitter  burst  of  scorn  ; 
he  had  struck  her  heartless  pride  with  insult  into  tears  ;  it  was 
done  ;  he  would  never  see  her  more. 


HARRINGTON.  269 

It  was  done,  but  was  it  well  done?  The  calm,  rebuking 
image  of  Harrington  rose  in  his  mind.  Him,  too,  she  was 
deceiving,  or  seeking  to  deceive — but  he — would  he  have 
answered  her  so  ?  Oh,  idiot  that  I  am,  he  thought  ;  he  would 
have  shamed  her  even  in  her  triumph  by  his  ^ilence,  his  com 
passion,  his  forgiveness,  and  made  her  feel  how  poor  a  thing 
she  was  ;  while  I  have  shown  her  that  my  wound  burns  and 
rankles  that  she  may  exult  over  it,  and  given  her  the  advantage 
by  an  insult  which  will  only  bring  her  sympathy  and  me 
shame  I 

Convulsed  for  a  moment  by  the  turbulent  rush  of  fury  that 
whirled  through  him,  he  suddenly  controlled  himself  with  a 
strong  effort,  and  leaning  his  burning  head  upon  his  hands, 
thought  on.  How  would  her  wiles  prosper  on  Harrington  ? 
Ha  !  it  was  joy  to  think  that  she  would  be  baffled  there  !  She 
does  not  know  that  he  loves  Muriel  ;  she  will  not  know  it  ;  she 
will  spin  her  seductive  web  ;  she  will  try  every  charm,  and  fail, 
and  fail — and  know  not  why  she  fails  !  For  he  loves  Muriel — 
yes,  he  loves  Muriel.  But  that  thought  brought  another 
to  the  mind  of  Wentworth.  In  vivid  contrast  with  his  own 
mean  and  little  jealousy  of  his  friend  when  he  thought  him  his 
rival  for  the  love  of  Emily,  came  Harrington's  selfless  generosity 
to  him  whom  he  thought  his  rival  for  the  love  of  Muriel. 
This,  too,  had  led  Harrington  to  attach  himself  in  all  their 
walks  and  meetings  to  Emily — he  had  stood  aside,  he  had 
waived  his  claim  to  the  contest  for  Muriel's  love,  he  had  left 
the  field  clear  and  open,  with  every  advantange  to  him. 
Brought  to  the  full  consciousness  of  this  lofty  magnanimity, 
alive  'now  to  his  own  selfish  selfness,  hot  tears,  wrung  from  him 
in  the  agony  of  his  self-abasement,  welled  from  his  eyes.  But 
this  could  be  atoned  for.  To-morrow,  yes,  to-morrow,  he 
would  see  Harrington — he  would  tell  him  all — he  would  con 
fess  his  fault,  and  ask  for  pardon.  This  wrong  could  be  undone 
— so  easily  ;  a  little  sacrifice  of  pride — that  was  all  ;  but 
Emily — her  wrong  to  him,  could  never  be  undone — never,  oh, 
never  !  A  ruined  heart,  a  ruined  life,  love  scorned,  self-respect 
crushed  ;  oh,  Emily,  Emily,  his  wild  thought  wailed,  loved, 
idolized,  adored  still,  despite  your  cruel  baseness,  your  heartless 


270  HARRINGTON. 

wrong,  your  life-long  injury  to  me,  how  can  I  forget  you,  how 
can  I  forgive  you,  how  can  I  blot  out  your  image  from  my 
life,  how  be  again  as  in  the  days  of  youth  and  love  and  hope 
now  gone  forever  and  forever  ! 

Weak,  shaken,  convulsed  with  passionate  despair,  he  bowed 
his  head  upon  his  nerveless  arms,  weeping  bitterly  in  silence,  as 
the  moon  was  going  down. 

As  the  moon  was  going  down,  its  pale  light  shone  into  the 
haunted  shadow  of  a  chamber,  and  on  the  lovely  pallid  face 
and  sumptuous  form  of  Emily,  dimly  projected  in  the  per 
fumed  dusk  against  the  velvet  of  a  cushioned  chair,  in  which 
she  lay  reclining  like  a  young  empress  doomed  to  die  upon  the 
morrow  morn.  Her  eyes  were  closed  ;  her  head  rested  back 
almost  in  profile  upon  the  velvet;  and  the  pale  and  sculptural 
features,  relieved  by  the  unbound  blackness  of  her  hair,  were 
like  a  dream  of  death.  The  white  night-robe  had  fallen  away, 
and  clearly  outlined  against  the  glorious  length  of  ebon  tresses 
which  sloped  in  thick  profusion  down  behind  her,  bloomed  the 
polished  ivory  of  one  peerless  shoulder,  melting  within  the 
crumpled  tissue  of  the  loose  sleeve  which  covered  her  drooping 
arm.  Still,  but  for  the  slow  heaving  of  her  bosom,  she  lay  in 
pallid  loveliness — a  maiden  queen  of  passional  love,  love-lorn, 
discrowned,  abandoned  and  brought  low. 

She  had  been  warned  of  this — too  late,  too  late  for  her  own 
peace — and  the  warning  had  come  true.  How  delicately,  how 
gently,  yet  how  clearly,  had  Witherlee  warned  her  to  beware 
of  Wentworth's  insidious  honey  tongue.  Kind  friend,  wise 
friend,  whom  they  think  treacherous  and  subtle,  you  were  loyal 
and  true  to  me.  But  your  warning  came  too  late,  for  I  had 
already  given  my  heart,  my  life,  my  peace  to  him.  Had  you 
but  spoken  earlier,  had  you  but  warned  me  in  tune — but  now, 
too  late,  too  late,  cast  off,  betrayed,  undone  !  a  handsome 
gallant's  sport,  his  theme  for  mockery  and  insult — come  Death, 
best  other  friend,  best  friend  of  all  to  me,  best  friend  and  only 
friend  to  me!  take  me  from  life  to  God,  for  all  that  made  ex 
istence  sweet  is  ended  I 

So  ran  the  silent  passion  of  her  thought,  with  silent-flowing 
tears.  The  solemn  night  was  still  around  her  vigil,  and  the 


HARRINGTON.  271 

hush  of  the  chamber  was  like  the  hush  of  the  tomb.  They 
sleep,  she  thought,  they  sleep  in  peace,  while  I  watch  here 
uncomforted.  She  sleeps,  my  noble-hearted  Muriel — she  who, 
misled  by  my  proud,  spleenful  folly,  thinks  I  have  given  my 
heart  to  Harrington.  And  he!  oh,  how  can  he  forgive  me 
when  I  tell  him — but  he  will — that  noble  nature  cannot  scorn 
me ;  he  will  understand  and  pity  and  pardon.  Let  me  only 
tell  him  frankly— let  me  atone  for  all  my  wrong  by  humbling 
myself  before  him ;  let  me  crave  his  compassion  and  forgive 
ness,  and  so  be  fitter  to  go  from  earth  to  my  Savior's  rest. 
To-morrow  I  will  depart  from  hence,  and  before  I  go  I  will 
see  Harrington  and  Muriel,  and  make  my  peace  with  them. 
I  who  was  jealous  of  her,  even  her,  my  sweet,  deep-hearted 
Muriel ;  I  will  own  it,  I  will  ask  her  forgiveness.  Punished, 
justly  punished,  for  my  wrong  to.  them  both,  let  me  be  forgiven 
by  them,  and  then  let  me  go  away  to  die. 

So  ran  the  deep  contrition  of  her  thought,  with  mournful- 
running  tears.  Sorrowfully  weeping,  she  turned  her  beautiful 
and  haggard  face  to  the  table  near  her,  and  took  from  thence 
a  single  faded  rose.  It  had  been  large  and  fresh  in  full-blown 
crimson  beauty,  when  he  had  given  it  to  her,  a  little  week  ago. 
fledge  of  a  love  then  in  its  seeming  hour  of  radiant  victory, 
it  was  the  withered  token  of  a  love  all  dead  and  disenchanted 
now.  Weeping,  she  pressed  it  to  her  lips  ;  she  kissed  it  with 
gentle  and  passionate  kisses.  The  sweet,  dry  odor  of  the  soft 
petals  stole  to  her  brain,  with  the  mournful  memory  of  the 
vanished  and  delicious  hour  when  the  rose  bloomed  fresh  in 
the  lover's  giving  hand,  and  his  tender  and  gallant  face  was 
the  rose  of  all  the  world  to  her.  Dear  rose,  she  murmured, 
memorial  of  hours  when  life  was  ecstasy,  and  heaven  itself 
seemed  cold  and  far — you  are  all  that  is  left  me  now  1  I  will 
keep  you,  I  will  love  you,  while  life  lasts,  and  when  I  die, 
they  shall  put  you  in  my  bosom,  under  the  shroud,  and  lay  us 
together  in  the  grave.  Gift  of  him  I  loved — of  him  I  love 
forever — oh,  Richard,'  Richard,  you  have  wronged  me,  but  I 
do  not  scorn  you — you  have  killed  me,  but  I  do  not  hate  you; 
I  love  you  now  ;  I  love  you,  I  forgive  you,  I  bless  you — with 
my  last  breath  I  shall  forgive,  and  love  and  bless  you  ! 


272 


HAEKINGTON. 


Murmuring  the  words,  in  an  ecstasy  of  passionate  fervor, 
her  voice  trembling,  and  the  tears  streaming  from  her  eyes, 
she  pressed  the  flower  with  both  hands  to  her  lips,  and  swoon 
ing  slowly  back  upon  the  cushions,  she  lay  motionless,  a  shape 
of  glorious  pallid  beauty,  sculptured  upon  the  odorous  dusk, 
as  the  moon  was  going  down. 

As  the  moon  was  going  down,  its  pale  ray  streaming  aslant 
the  drooping  misty  veils-  that  fell  in  parted  festoons  from  a 
golden  ring  above  the  pure  and  cloud-like  couch  of  Muriel, 
threw  a  tender  glory  on  her  Madonna  face,  sweet  in  its  waven 
fall  of  shadowy  tresses.  She  rested,  half-reclined  upon  her  side 
against  the  broad  bank  of  her  pillows,  in  the  soft  suffusion  of 
gloomy  bloom  which  insphered  her  couch  from  the  darkness  of 
the  chamber.  Her  beautiful  white  arms  flowing  from  an  open 
sleeve,  which  left  them  bare  nearly  to  the  shoulders,  lay  along 
her  form  upon  the  silvery  grey  of  the  coverlet,  and  her  eyes  shone 
like  dim,  rich  gems.  Alone  and  sleepless,  in  the  still  seclusion  of 
her  chamber,  the  phantoms  of  her  many-peopled  life  thronged 
her  spirit,  and  the  drama  of  the  day  lived  anew.  All  the  per 
sons  she  had  known  from  her  childhood  upward — faces,  too, 
that  she  had  seen  and  forgotten — came  floating  in  a  strange 
air  of  dreams  upon  her  vague  and  pensive  musing.  All  that 
had  passed  since  morning — the  places  where  she  had  been,  the 
people  she  had  met,  their  shapes,  their  colors,  their  manners 
and  gestures  ;  what  had  been  said,  what  had  been  done — came 
in  spectral  retrospection,  singularly  minute  and  circumstantial  ; 
and  now  and  then,  some  face,  some  glimpse  of  a  passing  form, 
some  room  or  fragment  of  sunlit  street,  half  surprised  her  by 
softly  appearing  to  the  inner  visual  sense,  with  the  jut  and  hues 
and  vivid  reality  of  actual  life.  Amidst  the  profuse  and  teem 
ing  phantasmagoria  of  her  thought,  came  often  the  strong  face 
of  her  uncle — with  the  surly  scowl  she  had  last  seen  upon  it, 
melting  into  an  ominous  smile  she  had  never  seen,  which 
strangely  altered  it  to  the  sinister  face  of  the  negro-holder. 
And  with  this — sometimes  preceding  it,  sometimes  following 
it,  and  mysteriously  connected  with  it,  almost  as  fantastically 
as  in  a  dream — came  the  agonized  and  imploring  dark  face  of 
Roux,  which  somehow  seemed  changed,  and  not  his  so  en- 


HAEKINGTON.  273 

tirely,  but  that  it  suggested  a  likeness  to  some  other  face 
which  she  could  not  recall.  Following  these — recurring  again 
and  again,  a  hundred  times,  and  linked  with  the  inexplicable  in 
cident  of  the  evening — came  Wentworth,  pale,  and  bitterly 
laughing,  passing,  with  half-turned,  scornful  head,  through  one 
door  ;  and  Emily,  melting  from  haughty  scarlet  into  pallor  and 
tears,  and  sweeping  away,  with  her  face  bowed  in  her  hands, 
through  the  other.  Because  it  -has  been  played  upon — be 
cause  it  has  been  played  upon.  The  words  came  with  every 
return  of  these  two  figures — came  wearily  and  strangely  ; 
darkly  significant,  yet  wholly  meaningless,  and  leaving  her  in 
quiet  wonder  as  to  what  lurked  beneath  them.  In  all  this 
spectral  picturing,  the  form  of  Harrington  was  absent  ;  and, 
though  several  times,  conscious  of  the  vivid  life  of  her  mind  that 
night,  she  strove  to  bring  him  before  her,  she  could  not  succeed. 
But  again  and  again  the  thought  of  his  love  for  Emily  and 
of  hers  for  him,  came  to  her,  never  impressing  her  so  singularly 
as  now.  The  strange  reticence  of  his  demeanor  to  Emily, 
c*ourteous,  frank,  kind  and  loving,  it  is  true,  but  yet  so  unlike 
the  abandonment  she  might  have  looked  for  in  a  lover  ;  the 
curious  attentions  of  Emily  to  him,  her  lustrous  looks  into  his 
face,  her  fond,  close  leaning  on  his  arm,  her  form  bending  so 
near  him,  her  restless  desire  to  isolate  herself  with  him  even 
when  she  and  Wentworth  were  present,  her  low  tones  and 
whisperings,  and  smiles,  tokens  of  love,  and  yet  somehow 
vaguely  unloverlike  ;  all  came  to  her  vividly,  and  like  an 
ordinary  page  in  a  book  which  yet  contained  a  lurking  riddle 
that  distracted  the  mind  from  the  ostensible  reading.  Then 
their  strange  reserve.  Emily  had  never  intimated  aught  of 
her  love  to  her,  save  in  the  conversation  which  she  herself  had 
instituted  to  charm  down  her  lover-like  jealousy,  and  the 
admission  then  was  rather  tacit  than  direct.  And  Harrington, 
too — he  had  never  breathed  a  word,  or  given  the  remotest 
hint  of  his  love  to  her — not  even  to  her,  his  adored  and  trusted 
friend.  Why  this  secrecy  ?  What  imaginable  reason  had 
they  for  this  close  conspiracy  of  reserve  ?  She  could  not  guess. 
She  could  not  even  invent  a  plausible  supposition  to  account 
for  it.  In  the  candid  and  vivid  temper  of  her  niiiid  that  night, 

12* 


274  HAKEINGTON. 

she  felt  that  the  mystery  of  their  relation  and  conduct  would 
be  fathomed  by  her,  could  she  but  keep  it  before  her  thoughts ; 
but  in  vain,  for  as  she  held  it,  it  would  drop  away,  and  be  lost 
in  the  phantasmagoric  population  which  crowded  and  faded 
upon  her,  and  then  appear  again,  and  again  be  lost ;  and  so 
crowding  and  fading,  and  coming  again,  in  quiet  and  spectral 
complication,  with  a  vague  sense  of  mystery,  and  monition 
and  shadowy  warning,  all  mingling  indefinitely  together,  and 
leaving  no  result  in  her  mind,  her  phantom  host  of  useless 
reminiscence  poured  ceaselessly  around  her,  as  the  moon  was 
going  down. 

As  the  moon  was  going  down  its  sad,  ray,  filtering  between 
a  tunnelled  lane  of  roofs  and  walls  across  the  garden  gate  of 
Harrington,  touched  his  drooping  forehead,  as  he  sat  near  his 
open  window,  breathing  the  refreshing  coolness  of  the  night 
air.  His  night-lamp  left  the  lower  part  of  the  room  in  dusky 
shadow,  but  threw  a  steady  radiance  on  the  open  volume 
from  which  he  had  risen  when  he  could  no  longer  abstract  his 
mind  to  the  rich  pages.  He  was  thinking  of  his  own  future-2- 
how  he  should  arrange  his  life  for  the  human  service.  The 
dream  of  love  was  dissolved;  henceforth  it  could  never  agitate 
his  heart;  now  he  was  wholly  and  only  mankind's.  She  had 
receded  from  him  into  the  farthest  distance  of  memory.  He 
thought  of  her  as  of  one  whom  he  had  known  and  loved 
many,  many  years  ago.  Now  she  was  gone,  and  he  was  alone, 
and  for  him  there  was  only  the  clouded  present  and  the 
unknown  future. 

Rising  from  his  seat,  he  paced  the  room.  A  strange  and 
solemn  heaviness  weighed  upon  him,  and  he  yearned  for  the 
morrow.  With  the  sense  of  the  night,  the  deep  hush  of  the 
air,  the  shadowy  quiet  of  the  room,  the  brooding  sentience  of 
the  ghostly  hour,  was  mingled  a  vague,  dark,  unimaginable 
portent  which  hung  like  lead  upon  his  soul.  Pausing  in  his 
silent  walk,  he  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand,  alone  in  the  vast, 
haunted  solitude  of  his  being,  and  longing  to  be  at  rest.  Mus 
ing  on  and  on,  a  fleeting  gleam  of  peace,  like  a  ray  shining 
through  clouds  over  a  waste  of  midnight  desolation,  stole  upon 
his  hour  of  lonely  weakness,  as  across  his  mind  floated  the 


HARRINGTON.  275 

image  of  Muriel  sleeping — her  lily  face  composed  to  rest  in  its 
nimbus  of  bright  hair,  and  sweet  with  happy  dreams.  So  had 
he  seen  her  in  her  light  slumber  that  day.  It  came  into  his 
mind  as  he  mused — how  she  had  leaped  up  from  her  graceful 
rest,  with  what  ethereal  summer  lightning  of  a  smile  on  her 
awakened  face,  with  what  delicious  laughter  and  what  gay 
replies.  Her  words — '  you  are  the  fairy  prince  that  awakened 
me,  and  now  I  am  to  follow  you  through  all  the  world.' 

He  looked  up  with  a  throbbing  brain.  The  dream  of  love 
was  dissolved  ;  henceforth  it  could  never  agitate  his  heart  : 
now  he  was  wholly  and  only  mankind's — Oh,  mockery  of 
mockeries  ! 

In  the  dead  stillness  there  was  the  sense  of  mighty  pulses 
madly  beating,  and  the  air  was  flame.  All  his  being  rose  like 
the  torrent  surge  and  thunder  of  a  heaven-drowning  sea,  and 
for  one  fierce  instant  the  world  of  life  quivered  through  and 
through  with  agony.  He  gazed  before  him  with  tense  and 
burning  eyes.  A  faint  radiance  cast  from  the  funnel  of  his 
lamp,  lit  the  kingly-fronted  statue  of  Verulam  on  its  pedestal. 
The  light  lay  lucid  on  the  vast  and  sovereign  brow,  melting 
into  fainter  light  below,  and  the  face  was  as  the  face  of  a  god 
rapt  in  the  white  peace  of  Eternity.  It  grew  upon  the  con 
vulsing  storm  of  his  passion  with  a  diffusive  calm.  Slowly,  as 
he  brooded  upon  the  august  countenance,  tranquil  in  massive 
majesty,  its  sweet  serenity,  its  passionless  and  regal  peace  sank 
upon  him  :  a  sad  and  gentle  inflowing  tide  of  feeling  lifted  him 
above  his  agitations,  till  at  length,  with  clasped  hands  and 
bowed  head,  and  all  the  tempest  of  his  spirit  dying  down  in 
streaming  tears,  he  rose  into  communion  with  the  man  whose 
life  on  earth  began  new  ages. 

No  words  breathed  from  his  lips,  no  thoughts  came  to  his 
mind,  but  in  the  ideal  presence  of  the  soul  he  loved,  raptures 
of  solemn  comfort  arose  within  him,  and  he  became  composed. 
A  load  seemed  to  lift  from  his  spirit,  and  turning  away,  re 
lieved  and  exalted,  he  sank  into  his  former  seat,  and  sat  in 
tranquil  musing  as  the  moon  was  going  down. 


276  HAKKINGTON. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

NOCTURNAL. 

GRADUALLY  a  desire  to  be  out  in  the  spiritual  solitude  of  the 
night  came  upon  him.  He  rose  from  his  seat,  closed  the  win 
dow,  took  his  hat  from  the  wall,  and  setting  the  night-lamp  in 
the  open  chimney,  turned  it  down  to  a  faint  glimmer,  and  left 
the  room,  locking  the  door  behind  him. 

A  feeble  growl  reminded  him  of  the  dog,  and  he  delayed  a 
moment  to  go  to  the  kennel  of  the  animal.  The  creature 
knew  him,  and  lazily  yawning  as  he  approached,  pawed  feebly 
in  its  nest  in  the  packing  case,  and  wagged  its  tail.  Patting 
it  on  the  head,  and  murmuring  a  kind  word  or  two,  he  turned 
from  ft,  and  abstractedly  wandered  out  at  the  gate,  and  away 
from  the  house,  with  his  head  bent  upon  his  breast,  and  his 
arms  behind  him. 

It  was  the  dead  of  night,  and  the  shadowy  streets,  wanly 
lighted  by  the  setting  moon,  were  intensely  still.  The  air  was 
bleak  and  cold,  but  the  wind,  which  had  been  stirring  before 
midnight,  had  gone  down.  On  that  memorable  night,  as  he 
afterward  remembered,  he  was  in  such  a  condition  of  mental 
abstraction,  that  he  took  no  note  of  the  course  his  steps  pur 
sued,  nor  did  he  once  lift  his  head  to  look  around  him.  The 
strangeness  of  the  moon  as  he  crossed  the  streets  where  it  was 
visible,  would  have  roused  him  to  observation,  had  he  chanced 
to  look  at  it.  But  he  did  not,  and  meeting  no  person,  nob  even 
a  watchman,  and  unmindful  of  the  route  he  took,  he  wandered 
mechanically  on. 

What  thoughts  engaged  him,  if  any,  he  never  could  recall. 
It  seemed  to  him,  however,  that  his  mind  must  have  been  in 
blank  vacancy,  uncrossed  by  any  shadow  of  mentality.  Yet 
lie  was  remotely  sensible  of  the  echoes  of  his  footfalls  in  the 


HABKINGTON.  277 

+ 

solitary  streets  and  of  his  passage  under  the  overshadowing 
bulks  of  the  dark  houses.  Remotely  sensible,  too,  that  there 
was  moonlight,  that  the  air  was  ghast  and  cold,  and  that  he 
was  loitering  on,  alone,  with  his  head  sunk  upon  his  breast, 
and  his  hands  clasped  behind  him. 

He  knew,  too,  when  he  had  reached  Washington  street, 
though  he  did  not  look  up,  but  he  felt,  as  it  were,  the  charac 
ter  of  the  street,  and  was  dimly  aware  of  the  great  multitude 
of  signs  that  covered  the  buildings.  He  was  conscious  of 
wandering  up  the  deserted  thoroughfare  for  some  distance, 
then  of  returning,  still  in  the  same  absent  mood,  of  crossing 
several  moonlit  spaces  formed  by  the  intersecting  streets,  of 
passing  the  grey,  towering  spire  of  the  Old  South  Church, 
and  of  turning  up  School  street.  In  all  this  route,  he  did  not 
meet  a  single  person,  or  once  arouse  even  for  a  moment  from 
his  intense  abstraction. 

But  as  he  turned  up  School  street  on  the  left  hand  side,  the 
solemn  and  funereal  clang  from  the  Old  South  steeple  startled 
him  from  his  lethargy,  striking  with  gloomy  clangor  the  hour 
of  two.  He  stopped,  listening  to  the  sombre  and  heavy 
blare  of  the  great  bell  as  it  tolled  the  hour,  and  then  died 
away  in  ghostly  and  aerial  reverberations.  Hearkening  till 
the  last  faint  dinning  of  the  swarming  tones  seemed  to  fail 
into  soundless  vibratory  waves,  he  waited  till  these  too  failed, 
and  the  awful  silence  of  the  night  again  descended  brooding 
on  the  air.  Two.  The  hour  when  spirits,  as  some  wild  seer 
avers,  have  power  to  enter  from  without,  and  walk  the 
earth  till  dawn.  Looking  up,  as  the  fancy  crossed  his  mind, 
he  saw  the  street,  a  lonely  vista  darkling  in  blue  and  melan 
choly  gloom,  so  strangely  litten,  so  unearthly  in  its  whole 
appearance,  that  a  sudden  and  silent  diffusion  of  awe  spread 
softly  through  his  being,  and  held  him  still. 

Had  he  been  brought  there  blindfolded,  and  the  bandage  re 
moved,  he  would  scarcely  have  known  where  he  was,  so 
changed  was  the  street  from  its  familiar  aspect.  The  gibbous 
moon,  a  huge,  misshapen  mass  of  watery  light  hanging  low  in 
the  dead,  dark  blue,  poured  a  flood  of  wan,  metallic  brilliance 
down  one  side  of  the  vista,  bringing  out  its  architectural  fear 


278  HARRINGTON. 

t 

tures  in  vivid  lustre  and  ebon  blackness,  while  the  structures 
on  the  side  on  which  he  stood,  loomed  dark  and  sharp  in  deep 
shadow.  So  lone,  so  ghast,  so  supernaturally  still,  so  changed 
in  the  weird  and  frigid  glitter,  so  desolate  and  splendid  in  the 
melancholy  light,  the  haggard  darkness,  the  mournful  and 
marble  silence,  that  the  gazer  might  have  dreamed  he  stood  in 
the  demon-city  of  the  Hebrew  story,  where  foot  of  man  hath 
seldom  trod,  and  the  evil  night  broods  eternal. 

Tranced  with  wondering  awe,  he  moved  slowly  up  the  pave 
ment,  gazing  upon  the  solemn  palaces  of  ebony  and  silver,  with 
his  imagination  darkly  stirred.  Beyond  him  lay  a  garden 
space,  breaking  the  line  of  the  vista,  with  two  chestnut-trees 
ia  front  on  the  pavement,  whose  thick  cones  of  foliage  seemed 
sculptured  in  metal,  and  were  dimly  silvered  by  the  moon. 
Further  on  rose  the  square  belfry  and  high-windowed  wall  of 
the  Stone  Chapel,  with  its  flank  gleaming,  and  its  panes  glit 
tering  in  the  wan  lustre.  As  his  glance  rested  on  this,  he  saw 
a  gaunt  and  spectral  figure  emerge  from  a  shadowed  angle,  and 
move  slowly,  with  a  strange,  uncertain  motion,  along  the  base 
of  the  chapel  wall,  with  the  unearthly  light  upon  its  shapeless 
outlines,  and  its  long,  black  shadow  distinct  upon  the  gleaming 
pavement.  Now  creeping  on,  now  halting  and  appearing  to 
waver,  strange  in  movement,  strange  and  alien  in  form,  it  in 
tensified  the  ghastly  and  desolate  solitude  with  its  presence, 
and  seemed  like  some  lone  vagrant  fiend  slinking  abroad  from 
his  lair,  in  the  pallor  of  the  waning  moon. 

Vaguely  attracted  by  the  strangeness  of  its  shape  and  move 
ments,  which  had  something  unusual  about  them  he  could  not 
define,  Harrington  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  it,  as  he  moved  on. 
The  figure  halted  and  wavered  in  its  shambling  walk  as  he 
drew  nigh,  and  finally  stood  still,  looking,  toward  him.  A  se 
cret  tremor  stirred  his  blood,  for  the  nearer  he  approached  the 
figure,  the  more  inexplicable  was  the  gauntness  and  shapeless- 
ness  of  its  outlines.  He  was  still  some  twenty  or  thirty  yards 
distant  from  it,  and.  without  well  knowing  why  he  did  so,  for 
he  had  no  intention  of  accosting  it,  he  slowly  crossed  the 
street,  and  walked  as  slowly  forward.  As  he  drew  nearer,  a 
vague  disgust  mingled  with  the  faint  tremor  of  his  veins,  for  a 


HARRINGTON.  279 

horrible  and  poisonous  smell,  which  grew  stronger  as  he  ap 
proached,  burdened  the  cold  air.  What  dreadful  outcast  is 
this  ?  he  thought.  Suddenly  he  stood  still,  aghast,  petrified, 
filled  with  an  icy  affright  mixed  with  unutterable  loathing,  and 
his  eyes  riveted  to  the  awful  shape  before  him.  He  was  within 
a  couple  of  yards  of  it,  and  as  it  stood  trembling  in  the  weird 
brilliance  of  the  moon,  it  seemed  some  terrific  scare-crow  risen 
from  Hell. 

It  was  the  figure  of  a  man,  but  save  for  the  wild,  dark  face 
that  glared  at  him,  the  long,  gaunt  hands,  like  claws,  that 
hung  by  its  side,  the  thin  legs  half  bare,  and  gaunt,  splay  bare 
feet  on  which  it  stood  trembling,  it  seemed  liker  some  mon 
strous  rag.  A  loathsome  and  abominable  stench  exhaled  from 
it.  Its  clothes  were  a  dark  shirt  and  trowsers,  which  hung  in 
jagged  tatters  on  its  wasted  skeleton  frame.  Wound  round 
and  round  its  neck  in  a  thick  sug,  which  gave  it  that  appear 
ance  of  shapelessness  he  had  first  noticed,  was  what  seemed  an 
old  blanket.  Above  this  glared  a  face  of  livid  swarth,  lit  by 
the  gloomy  moon,  the  cheek  bones  protruding,  the  cheeks  hor 
ribly  sunken,  the  mouth  fallen  away  from  the  white  teeth,  the 
eyes  hollow  and  staring,  the  whole  face  that  of  some  appalling 
mummy,  burst  from  the  leathern  sleep  of  its  Egyptian  tomb, 
and  endowed  with  horrid  life  to  make  night  hideous. 

The  blood  of  Harrington  seemed  turned  to  ice  as  he  gazed, 
and  his  hair  rose. 

"  In  the  name  of  God,"  he  gasped,  "  what  manner  of  man 
are  you  ?" 

The  figure  did  not  answer,  but  stared  at  him  and  trembled. 

Harrington's  heart  was  stout,  and  conquering  at  once  his 
affright  and  the  sickening  disgust  which  the  stench  gave  him, 
he  made  one  stride  nearer  to  the  figure. 

"Who  are  you?  Where  did  you  come  from?"  he  de 
manded. 

The  figure  made  no  answer,  but  still  stared  rigidly  at  him, 
and  trembled. 

Harrington  closely  scanned  the  ghastly  and  hideous  face, 
but  could  not  determine  anything  concerning  it.  In  the  wan 
light  of  the  moon,  its  horrible  emaciation  and  livid  duskiness 


280  HARRINGTON. 

of  hue,  together  with  the  terrific  expression  the  fallen  mouth 
and  exposed  teeth  gave  it,  made  it  seem  like  the  face  of  a 
ghoul. 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?  Have  you  no  home  ?"  asked  Har 
rington,  shuddering. 

"  No,  Marster." 

If  a  corpse  could  speak,  its  voice  might  be  the  weak  and 
hollow  quaver  in  which  the  outcast  made  this  answer.  An 
awful  feeling  rose  in  the  heart  of  Harrington,  for  he  knew  by 
the  accent  of  the  ghastly  stranger  that  he  was  a  negro,  and 
the  title  he  had  bestowed  upon  him  indicated  that  he  was  a 
runaway  slave. 

"  Where  do  you  come  from  ?  Where  have  you  been  ?"  he 
asked  quickly. 

The  outcast  trembled  violently  throughout  his  lank  frame, 
and  his  jaws  chattered. 

"  Oh,  Marster,  don't  ask  me,"  he  answered  in  his  weak, 
hollow  voice.  "  I've  been  in  hell,  Marster,  and  I've  got 
away.  I've  been  in  hell,  Marster,  sure.  Don't  send  me 
back,  now  don't.  Have  a  little  mercy,  Marster,  and  let  me 
go." 

So  awful  were  the  words  in  that  lone  hour ;  so  awful  the  hol 
low  and  sepulchral  voice  that  uttered  them ;  so  awful  the  mo 
tion  of  the  face  which  writhed  in  speaking,  as  though  in  some 
rending  agony;  so  awful  and  so  dreadful  the  black  skeleton 
gauntness,  the  monstrous  raggedness,  the  Druidic  filth  of  the 
trembling  figure,  with  its  swathed  neck  showing  like  some 
enormous  circle  of  wen,  and  the  poisonous  stench  sickening  the 
whole  night  with  its  exhalations,  that  Harrington  instinctively 
recoiled.  Up  from  the  lowest  abysses  of  social  wretchedness  they 
swarmed  into  his  mind; — the  degraded  of  every  low  condition 
and  degree — the  neglected,  the  forgotten,  the  forlorn,  the  scum 
and  dregs  and  ordure  of  mankind — the  thieves,  the  beggars, 
the  tatterdemalion  sots  and  prostitutes  and  stabbers — the 
bloated,  brutal,  malformed  nightmare  monsters  of  a  Humanity 
transformed  to  shapes  more  fearful  than  the  foulest  beasts ; — 
up  from  the  dark  and  fetid  dens  of  the  filthiest  quarter  of  the 
city— up  from  the  sinks  and  stews  of  the  Black  Sea — a  wild 


HARRINGTON.  281 

and  grisly  company — they  swarmed  upon  him.  In  all  their 
misery,  no  misery  like  this — in  all  their  number,  no  shape  to 
pair  with  this.  Below  the  lowest  abyss  of  their  wretchedness, 
yawned  a  lower,  new-come  from  which,  in  the  haggard  pallor  of 
the  moon,  stood  a  figure  from  whose  ghastly  and  abominable 
Pariah  shape  the  foulest  and  the  vilest  of  them  all  would  have 
shrunk  away.  Below  the  lowest  hell  wherein,  in  sunless  crime 
and  vice,  their  ruined  natures  were  immerged,  lay,  as  in  the 
Inferno  of  Dante,  a  hell  still  lower — the  hell  decreed  by  ava 
rice  for  innocent  men,  new-risen  from  which,  all  loathly  foul, 
all  awful  with  long  suffering,  stood  the  dark  fugitive,  afraid  to 
tell  his  name,  afraid  to  say  from  whence  he  had  come,  afraid 
to  stand  in  the  presence  of  his  fellow,  as  though  he  were  some 
frightful  felon  dreading  the  vengeance  of  mankind  I 

Gasping  and  shuddering  through  all  his  frame,  Harrington 
gazed  at  him. 

"  0  my  country  !"  he  murmured,  "that  such  a  thing  as  this 
should  be  !  That  such  a  wrong  as  this  should  be  wrought  by 
you  !" 

The  fugitive  seemed  to  hear  some  fragment  of  his  words,  for 
he  spoke  instantly. 

"  Marster,"  he  said,  "  you'll  be  a  friend  to  me,  won't  you  ? 
I've  gone  through  a  good  deal  to  git  away,  Marster.  I  have, 
indeed,  and  I've  got  so  fur  now,  you  won't  send  me  back.  Oh, 
Marster,  don't  send  me  back  !" 

He  tried  to  kneel  to  him  on  the  pavement.  The  tears 
sprang  to  Harrington's  eyes,  and  conquering  his  disgust,  he 
strode  forward,  caught  the  foul  form,  and  raised  it  to  its 
feet.  The  fugitive  shrank  a  little  at  his  touch,  and  stood 
trembling. 

"  You  poor  fellow,"  sorrowfully  said  Harrington,  "  don't  be 
afraid  of  me.  I  won't  harm  you.  No,  I  won't  send  you  back. 
And  if  you'll  trust  in  me,  you  shall  be  safe  and  no  one  shall 
lay  a  hand  upon  you.  But  it's  not  safe  for  you  to  be  out  here 
in  the  street.  Come  with  me,  and  I'll  give  you  a  place  to 
sleep,  and  food  to  eat,  and  take  care  of  you." 

The  fugitive  hesitated  a  moment,  still  trembling. 

"  Marster,  I'll  trust  in  you,"  he  said  at  length.     "  I'll  trust 


282  HARRINGTON. 

in  you,  Marster,  and  I'll  go  along  with  you,  if  you  won't  send 
me  back." 

"  I  promise  you,  before  God,  that  you  shall  be  safe  with 
ine,"  said  Harrington,  solemnly.  "  Come." 

He  grasped,  as  he  spoke,  the  thin  arm  of  the  trembling  fugi 
tive,  and  so  assisting  him,  they  moved  slowly  away  together  in 
silence,  across  Tremont  street,  and  up  the  slope  of  Beacon 
street,  with  the  light  of  the  sinking  moon  in  their  faces.  The 
fugitive  was  very  weak,  and  tottered  as  he  walked,  despite  the 
support  the  arm  of  his  protector  gave  him.  An  overmastering 
pity,  mixed  with  sombre  sadness,  filled  the  heart  of  Harrington 
as  he  felt  the  tottering  motion,  and  heard  the  faint,  stertorous 
panting  of  the  miserabre  creature  beside  him.  The  slow  pace 
at  which  they  moved,  combined  with  the  nauseating  odor  of 
the  rags  which  covered  the  fugitive,  was  an  added  trial  to  him, 
but  he  saw  there  was  no  help  for  it,  and  was  patient. 

Somewhat  apprehensive  about  meeting  a  watchman,  and  not 
liking  to  be  interrogated  with  a  companion  whom  it  was  pru 
dence  to  hide  as  much  as  possible,  Harrington  took  the  least 
public  route  he  could  under  the  circumstances.  As  they 
turned  into  Somerset  street,  the  fugitive  faltered,  stopped,  and 
began  to  cough.  A  terrible  cough,  weak,  hoarse,  incessant, 
which  shook  his  whole  frame.  It  ended  at  last,  and  with  a 
faint  groan  of  exhaustion,  he  sat  down  on  a  doorstep,  panting, 
and  breathing  hard. 

Shaken  with  pity,  and  doubly  anxious  lest  the  noise  should 
attract  some  wandering  night-policeman,  Harrington  stood 
over  him,  impatient  to  resume  the  journey. 

"  Do  you  feel  better  now  1"  he  said,  gently.  "  We  must 
get  on  as  fast  as  we  can." 

"  Oh,  Marster,"  gasped  the  fugitive,  slowly  and  painfully 
rising.  "  I  feel  as  if  I  couldn't  go  no  further.  I'm  so  powerful 
weak,  Marster." 

He  tottered  as  he  spoke  ;  and  Harrington,  thinking  he  was 
going  to  fall,  hastily,  and  somewhat  awkwardly,  threw  up  his 
arms  to  catch  him,  and  struck  his  hand  against  something  hard. 
Confused  and  startled,  he  withdrew  his  hand  to  rub  it,  wonder 
ing  what  could  have  hurt  it.  He  thought  it  had  come  in  con- 


HAEKINGTON.  283 

act  with  the  sug  around  the  fugitive's  neck  ;  but,  as  that  was 
ilearly  only  a  wrappage  of  cloth,  and  as  the  fugitive's  head 
v&s  bent  at  the  time,  he  fancied  he  might  have  struck  his  hand 
.gainst  the  man's  teeth." 

"  Did  I  hurt  you  ?"  he  asked,  hastily.  "  Did  I  hit  your 
eeth  ?" 

"  No,  Marster,"  replied  the  fugitive,  fumbling  with  the  folds 
/round  his  throat. 

"  Why  do  you  wear  that  blanket  so  ?"  asked  Harrington. 

"  Felt  cold,  Marster." 

He  said  no  more,  but  stood  feebly  handling  the  wrappage, 
tnd  trembling.  Harrington  thought  it  strange  that  he  should 
hus  guard  his  throat,  when  his  body  was  so  bare,  yet  admitted 
o  himself  that  perhaps  the  cloth  could  not  have  been  better 
lisposed  for  comfort,  and  thinking  no  more  of  it,  he  again 
grasped  the  fugitive's  arm,  and  drew  him  on.  They  moved 
is  slowly  as  before  over  the  dark  slope  of  Somerset  street, 
inder  the  shadow  of  the  dwellings.  Presently,  the  fugitive 
topped  again,  and  began  to  cough.  This  time  Harrington 
brined  a  desperate  resolution. 

What  was  it  ?  There  are  people  who  think  they  love  man- 
tind.  But  among  the  natural  barriers  that  divide  us  from  our 
ellows,  there  is  none  more  impassable  than  a  loathly  uuclean- 
iness.  How  many  of  the  lovers  of  men  could  so  have  con- 
juered  nature  as  to  clasp  that  leprous  form  in  their  arms  ? 
low  many  could  have  borne  the  test  of  their  love  which  such 
in  act  would  impose  ?  For  this  was  the  test  that  proved  the 
nighty  heart  of  Harrington,  and  this  was  his  resolution. 

"  Listen  to  me,  friend,"  he  said,  when  the  cough  had  sub 
sided.  "  It  will  never  do  for  us  to  get  on  as  slowly  as  this,  for 
we  have  some  distance  to  go.  Now  you  keep  still,  for  I'm 
^oing  to  carry  you." 

He  quickly  took  off  his  coat  and  vest  as  he  spoke — for  he 
lid  not  wish  to  spoil  them  by  contact  with  the  filthy  body  of 
;he  fugitive — rolled  them  up  in  a  close  bundle,  which  he  secured 
tvitli  his  neckerchief  ;  then  without  permitting  himself  to 
?eel  the  strong  repugnance  which  the  foulness  of  the  poor 
creature's  apparel  inspired,  he  flung  his  strong  arms  around 


284  HARRINGTON. 

him,  and  lifting  him  across  his  breast,  with  his  head  above  his 
shoulder,  deaf  to  his  feeble  remonstrance,  set  off  at  a  rapid 
stride.  The  remonstrance  ceased  presently,  and  Harrington, 
hardly  feeling  the  weight  of  his  burden,  strode  at  a  masterly 
pace  over  the  dark  slope  of  Somerset  street,  turned  into  Allston, 
from  thence  into  Derne,  crossed  Hancock  to  Myrtle,  wheeled 
into  Belknap,  kept  the  grand  stride  down  the  hill  to  Cam 
bridge  street,  crossed  into  Chambers,  and  set  his  load  down  at 
the  garden  gate. 

A  little  heated  by  his  exertion,  he  opened  the  gate  with  one 
hand,  rubbing  his  shoulder  with  the  other,  and  with  a  nod  of 
his  head  invited  the  fugitive  to  enter,  wondering  meanwhile 
what  it  was  about  the  man's  neck  that  had  pressed  so  hard 
against  his  shoulder  all  the  way.  Something  as  hard  as  iron, 
and  several  times  he  had  even  felt  a  point,  like  a  muffled  spike, 
press  upon  his  flesh,  through  the  folds  of  his  blanket.  There 
was  something  mysterious  under  those  folds,  he  thought,  as 
he  unlocked  his  door,  and  he  was  curious  to  know  what  it 
could  be. 

Congratulating  himself  that  he  had  been  so  lucky  as  not  to 
meet  a  single  person  during  his  nocturnal  march,  he  held  the 
door  open  till  the  fugitive  had  entered,  and  then  closing  and 
locking  it,  he  took  the  glimmering  lamp  from  the  chimney,  set 
it  on  the  table,  and  turned  up  the  flame.  The  fugitive  stood, 
shaking  on  his  gaunt  legs,  with  his  eyes  wildly  revolving  upon 
the  rows  of  books  all  around  him,  and  ever  returning  to  rest  for 
a  moment  on  the  bust  of  Lord  Bacon  on  its  pedestal.  Poor  Tom 
in  Lear — that  wild  figure  plucked  up  from  the  low  gulfs  of 
the  Elizabethan  wretchedness,  and  set  in  Shakspearean  light 
forever — was  tame  compared  to  the  lank  and  ghastly  figure  of 
the  lorn  wanderer  from  slavery.  Less  unearthly  in  the  light 
which  fell  upon  his  visage  from  the  funnel  of  the  lamp, -than  in 
the  weird  rays  of  the  moon,  he  was  not  less  hideously  pitiable. 
His  face,  which  was  naturally  quite  dark,  was  terribly  emaciated, 
with  the  skull  almost  visible  through  its  wasted  features,  or,  at 
least,  suggested  by  the  prominence  of  the  teeth  and  forehead, 
the  projection  of  the  cheek-bones,  the  hollow  pits  of  the  cheeks, 
and  the  cavernousness  of  the  eyes,  which  were  ridged  with 


HARRINGTON.  285 

heavy  eye-brows.  Harrington  took  in  his  aspect  with  one 
firm  glance,  and  mindful  of  his  weakness,  brought  him  a  chair, 
and  made  him  sit  down  ;  then  opened  the  windows,  to  let  the 
fresh  air  relieve  the  smell  of  his  rags  in  the  close  room. 

Going  up  his  ladder  the  next  minute,  he  lit  a  lamp  above, 
and  turned  on  the  water  into  his  bath-tub.  He  came  down 
presently,  bare  to  the  waist,  the  light  gleaming  on  his  muscu 
lar  arms  and  massive  cheft,  and  stood  fronting  the  fugitive 
with  his  watch  in  his  hand,  his  head  bent  toward  him  on  the 
kingly  and  beautiful  slope  of  his  white  shoulders. 

"  Now,  friend,"  said  he,  with  naive  gravity,  "  you  must  be 
washed.  In  five  minutes  the  bath-tub  will  be  full,  so  take  .  off 
those  things,  and  Pll  give  you  some  other  clothes." 

"  Yes,  Marster,  I'm  in  need  of  bein?  washed.  I  ain't  fit  to 
be  in  this  nice  house,"  quavered  the  fugitive  abjectly,  rising 
feebly  as  he  spoke. 

Harrington,  without  replying,  watched  him  curiously  as  he 
fumbled  at  the  blanket  on  his  neck,  and  saw  that  he  was  loth 
to  remove  it. 

"  0  Marster,  Marster,"  he  groaned,  "  I'm  afeard  to  let  you 
see  it.  But,  Marster,  you'll  be  friendly  to  me,  and  you  won't 
send  me  back,  Marster  ?" 

"  Come,  come,  poor  fellow,  you  know  you're  safe  with  me," 
said  Harrington,  kindly,  all  alive  meanwhile  with  curiosity. 
"  Come,  off  with  it." 

The  negro  still  fumbling  at  the  blanket,  without  undoing  it, 
and  sighing  piteously,  Harrington  laid  his  watch  on  the  table, 
and  stepping  forward,  unwound  the  wrappage  from  his  neck, 
fold  after  fold,  pulled  it  ^ff,  and  disclosed  an  iron  collar  with 
a  prong,  and  the  letters  distinct  upion  it — LAFITTE  BROTHERS, 
NEW  ORLEANS. 

He  did  not  start,  nor  stagger  back,  but  stood,  like  a  statue 
struck  by  thunder,  glaring  at  the  collar  with  parted  lips  and 
starting  eyes,  a  pallor  like  death  upon  his  countenance,  and  a 
strong  shudder  quivering  through  his  bare  chest  and  arms, 
while  the  negro  cowered  with  a  hideous-piteous  imploring 
face,  his  form  crouching,  and  his  hands  clasped  before  him. 
In  the  dead  silence,  nothing  was  heard  but  the  loud  running 


286  HARRINGTON. 

of  the  water  in  the  room  overhead,  and  the  fault  gasping 

breath  of  the  fugitive. 

,  "  God  Almighty  I"  shouted  Harrington,  "  what  is  this  ?" 

The  fugitive  did  not  answer,  but  stood  faintly  gasping.  The 
next  instant  Harrington  started,  with  a  strong  muscular  con 
vulsion  of  his  frame,  and  strode  a  pace  forward. 

"  Who  put  that  collar  on  your  neck  1"  he  demanded  with 
awful  anger. 

"  Marster  Lafitte  put  it  on,  Marster." 

"  Master  Lafitte  ?  which  one  ?  That  says  Lafitte  Brothers," 
cried  Harrington,  pointing  with  outstretched  arm  and  finger 
straight  at  the  name. 

"  Marster  Torwood  Lafitte  put  it  on,  Marster,"  quavered 
the  fugitive,  affrighted  at  Harrington's  manner. 

Harrington's  outstretched  arm  sank  slowly,  and  dropped  by 
his  side.  A  deep  and  burning  flush  mounted  to  his  face,  and 
clenching  his  hands,  he  thundered  a  tremendous  oath.  Such  an 
oath  as  Washington  swore  when  Lee  chafed  him  in  his  legions. 
Such  an  oath  as  had  never  before  passed  the  calm  lips  of  Har 
rington,  but  it  burst  from  his  heart's  core. 

He  stood  in  silence  for  a  moment,  the  flush  dying  from  his 
face,  and  his  anger  settling  down  from  that  explosion  into 
calm. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  what's  your  name  ?"  he  demanded. 

"  Antony,  Marster." 

Harrington  was  past  surprise,  but  his  brain  whirled,  and 
blankness  gathered  upon  it.  For  a  minute,  he  stood  vacantly 
staring  at  the  fugitive.  Then,  recovering  from  his  stupefac 
tion,  he  sighed  vaguely,  and  wiped  away  the  perspiration  from 
his  face  with  the  palm  of  his  hand.  Glancing  presently  at  his 
watch,  he  saw  that  the  five  minutes  had  not  expired,  and  going 
to  a  drawer,  he  produced  a  bunch  of  keys. 

"  We'll  have  that  collar  off,"  said  he,  approaching  the  fugi 
tive. 

Key  after  key  was  tried,  but  none  fitted.  Throwing  down 
the  bunch,  Harrington  looked  at  the  watch,  and  went  up-stairs 
to  stop  the  water.  He  came  back  presently,  took  the  shade 
from  the  lamp,  and  holding  the  light  to  the  collar,  inspected 


HAEKINGTON.  287 

its  make  carefully.  He  saw  that  it  opened  on  a  hinge  behind, 
and  was  secured  by  a  lock  before.  Putting  the  lamp  on  the 
table,  he  reflected  for  a  moment. 

"  Lie  down  on  the  floor,"  he  said,  presently. 

The  fugitive  obeyed,  with  as  much  alacrity  as  his  feebleness 
permitted.  He  already  had  the  most  entire  and  perfect  confi 
dence  in  his  protector. 

Bending  over  him,  Harrington  turned  him  on  his  side.  Then 
taking  up  the  poker,  he  inserted  it  between  the  neck  of  the 
fugitive  and  the  under  side  of  the  collar,  and  putting  his  foot 
on  this  for  a  purchase,  thus  holding  the  collar  firmly  to  the 
floor,  he  seized  the  upper  side  near  the  lock  with  both  hands. 

"  Xow  he  still,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  know  whether  I'm  strong 
enough  to  break  the  lock,  but,  by  mankind  !"  he  shouted,  "  I'll 
try  !" 

Slowly,  the  muscles  in  Harrington's  arms  straightened,  his 
bent  leg  grew  firm  as  iron,  the  arms  became  two  stiff,  white 
corded  bars,  the  muscles  in  his  back  and  shoulders  tensely 
trembled,  the  blood  mounted  to  his  face  and  body,  and  in  the 
midst  of  the  slow,  tremendous  strain,  there  was  a  faint  clicking 
gride,  a  sudden  snap,  a  screaking  wrench,  and  one  half  the  col 
lar  rose  on  its  rusty  hinge  in  his  hands.  The  deed  was  done  ! 
Harrington  stood  up,  and  stepped  back,  exercising  his  arms, 
while  the  bought  thraU  of  Lafitte  scrambled  erect,  ghastlily 
grinning,  and  stood  surveying  the  accursed  necklace,  which  lay 
open  as  his  neck  had  abandoned  it,  with  the  bent  jloker  tying 
on  its  inner  surface. 

"  To-morrow,"  said  Harrington,  quietly,  "  you  are  to  tell  me 
all  about  this.  Now  undress  yourself." 

"  Yes,  Marster,"  and  the  fugitive,  with  a  sort  of  ghastly 
joyfulness,  hastily  divested  himself  of  his  foul  rags,  which  Har 
rington  at  once  threw  into  the  yard. 

An  awful  sight  was  that  black  skeleton  of  a  body.  As  it 
lankly  straddled  across  the  room,  and  up  the  ladder,  following 
Harrington,  Holbein  might  have  taken  it  as  Death  come  for 
the  Scholar — a  grimmer  and  grislier  figure  than  any  in  the 
Dance  Macaber.  Few  men  would  have  borne  to  abide  even 
for  a  moment  iu  the  same  room  with  it.  The  very  dog  hi  the 


288  HAKKINGTON. 

yard,  himself  the  Pariah  of  brutes,  would  have  bayed  at  it  and 
shrunk  into  his  kennel. 

Our  free  and  happy  country  had  been  at  work  upon  that 
form.  North  and  South  had  wrought  together  to  bring  it  to 
perfection.  The  old  scars  which  covered  it,  the  horny  wheals 
of  many  a  scourging,  the  thick  ring  of  callosed  flesh  left  by  the 
iron  collar  around  its  neck — these  were  the  special  tool-marks 
of  the  South.  The  recent  cuts  and  bruises,  the  swollen  contu 
sions  left  by  fist  and  boot  upon  it,  the  raw,  blue  sores,  the 
general  offence  and  stench  it  had  contracted  in  the  noisome  pit 
of  a  vessel's  noisome  hold — these  showed  the  tooling  of  the 
North.  That  ghastly  gauntiiess,  that  lank  emaciation,  that 
livid  swarth,  those  signs  and  tokens  of  ferocious  abuse,  of  cold 
and  hunger  and  sickness  and  privation — our  free  and  happy 
country  had  done  it  all  ! 

Servant  and  soldier  of  mankind,  thy  menial  task  of  love  is 
set,  thy  work  is  here  !  Purge  the  pollution  from  this  wasted 
body,  and  with  thy  own  hand,  tender  and  skillful  as  a  woman>s> 
bind  up  these  wounds,  anoint  and  dress  these  sores  !  For  him, 
the  lowest  and  the  loathliest  of  thy  brethren,  are  these  mean 
toils — the  meanest  man  can  do  for  man.  Thy  free  and  happy 
country  would  say  thou  doest  ill;  and  "  ill"  the  snickering 
whinny  and  brute  scoff  from  the  jaws  of  her  slavers  and  trad 
ers  ;  and  "ill"  her  hell-dog  statute  dragging  thee  to  the  jail 
and  fine  for  helping  the  lorn  wanderer.  Thou  call'st  the  spirit 
of  the  a^es  by  another  name  than  ours — thou  call'st  it 
Yerulam,  we  call  it  Christ.  Oh,  man  beloved  of  Christ  and 
Yerulam,  thou  doest  well ! 

An  hour  passed  on  and  the  solemn  task  was  done.  His 
matted  hair  cut  off,  his  body  clean,  his  wounds  dressed,  the 
fugitive,  clad  in  a  shirt  and  drawers  of  Harrington's,  a  world 
too  large  for  his  wasted  frame,  was  placed  by  the  young 
scholar  in  his  bed,  and  sitting  there  was  fed  with  biscuit,  and 
wine  and  water — the  only  food  and  drink  accessible  then.  The 
repast  ended,  Harrington  washed  himself,  put  on  clean  clothes, 
arranged  the  room,  and  then  turned  to  go  down.  The  fugitive 
lay  weakly  sobbing. 

"  Good  night,  Antony,"  said  Harrington,  gravely,  standing 


HAEEINGTON.  289 

with  the  lamp  in  his  hand,  its  light  shining  on  his  beautiful 
and  bearded  countenance. 

Suddenly,  before  he  could  be  stopped,  the  fugitive 
scrambled  from  the  bed,  and  flinging  himself  at  Harrington's 
feet,  embraced  them  with  his  thin  wrists  and  huge  hands,  and 
laid  his  head  upon  them. 

"The  Lord  Jesus  bless  you,  Marster,"  he  sobbed  in  a 
broken  and  sepulchral  voice,  "  Oh,  Marster,  the  Lord  Jesus 
bless  you,  for  there's  not  no  such  Marster  as  you,  Marster, 
nowhere — Oh  Marster  " 

Harrington  stopped  him  by  suddenly  starting  away  to  lay 
down  the  lamp,  and  returning,  lifted  him  to  his  feet  and  got ' 
him  into  bed  again. 

"  I  know  all  you  feel,  Antony,"  he  said,  pulling  the  clothes 
over  him  j  "  but  you  musn't  talk  to-night,  poor  fellow.  Now 
go  to  sleep,  and  have  a  long  rest,  and  to-morrow  or  the  next 
day,  we'll  talk.  Good  night." 

"  Good  night,  Marster,"  sobbed  the  submissive  negro. 

Harrington  took  from  a  nail  on  the  wall,  an  old  camlet 
cloak  which  had  been  his  father's,  and  seizing  the  lamp,  went 
down. 

The  first  thing  was  to  take  the  collar  from  the  floor,  and 
put  it  in  a  drawer  ;  then  untying  his  bundled  coat  and  vest, 
he  shook  them  out,  and  hung  them  up  ;  then  opening  the  door 
and  windows,  for  the  taint  of  the  foul  rags  was  still  in  the 
room,  he  went  into  the  yard,  and  stood  breathing  the  cool, 
pure  air,  and  gazing,  with  a  sense  of  boding  at  his  heart, 
upon  the  thick  hordes  of  stars.  The  night  seemed  all  wild 
and  alive.  Something  sinister  and  evil  pervaded  the  atmos 
phere,  and  the  dark  blue  spread  like  an  astrologic  scroll 
bright  with  burning  cyphers  and  diagrams  of  doom. 

Returning  to  the  house  with  a  mind  ill  at  ease,  he  closed  the 
door  and  shutters,  leaving  the  windows  open.  Then  taking  a 
revolver  from  its  case  in  a  drawer,  he  drew  the  charges,  and 
reloaded  Hie  weapon.  It  was  altogether  unlikely  that  the  hunters 
would  come  to  his  dwelling;  still  there  was  nothing  like  being 
ready;  and  Harrington  with  his  Baconian  faith  that  men  with 
out  natural  good  were  but  a  nobler  sort  of  vermin,  was  quite 

13 


290  HAEKINGTON. 

resolved  both  to  "prevent  the  fiend  and  to  kill  vermin/7  as  the 
Shakspearean  phrase  has  it,  if  they  crept  near  the  hiding-place 
of  the  fugitive. 

His  pistol  loaded,  he  laid  it  on  the  table,  and  sat  a  few 
minutes  thinking  of  the  strangeness  of  his  night's  adventure. 
How  awful  and  marvellous  it  all  was  !  The  brother  of  Roux, 
whom  he  had  tried  to  ransom,  in  his  keeping — Roux  himself 
in  danger — Lafitte  in  the  city,  and  master  of  the  secret  of  his 
locality!  The  air  seemed  thick  with  peril. 

Rising  presently,  he  put  the  lamp  in  the  fire-place,  and 
turned  it  low;  then  taking  the  cushion  of  his  chair  for  a  pil 
low,  he  wrapped  himself  in  the  camlet  cloak,  and  lay  down 
on. the  sofa.  A  few  moments'  dazed  reflection  on  the  events 
of  the  night,  and  fatigued  by  his  labors,  he  dropped  away 
into  dreamless  slumber. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

THE    PRETTY   PASS  THINGS   CAME  TO. 

As  an  iceberg  sinks  dissolved  into  the  waters  of  the 
Southern  ocean,  so  sank  the  cold,  blue  night  into  the  golden 
crystal  of  a  warm,  delicious  day.  Again  beneath  the  hiving 
roofs  of  the  great  city,  awoke  the  complex,  many-actioned, 
myriad-thoughted  swarm  of  life,  and  again  through  the  grotes 
que  and  picturesque  crooked  streets  poured  the  motley  varie 
ties  of  civic  existence,  with  the  municipal  clash  and  rattle,  the 
scurry  of  driving  feet,  the  blab  of  many  voices,  the  incessant 
buzzing  roar.  The  traders  went  to  their  trade;  the  merchants 
to  their  stores  and  wharves  ;  the  mechanics  to  their  labor  ; 
the  little  ones  to  their  schools  ;  the  women  to  their  household 
tasks  ;  the  lawyers  to  their  courts ;  the  clergy  to  their  con 
ventions  ;  the  anti-slavery  people  to  their  debate  ;%  the  dark 
children  of  the  race  of  Attucks  to  their  humble  toils,  and  the 
phantoms  of  the  Reign  of  Terror  with  them. 

In  the  fencing-school,  Monsieur  Bagasse  fenced  with  his 


HAKEINGTON.  291 

pupils,  pausing  with  curious  eyes,  and  chin  levelled  at  the 
door  whenever  a  new  footstep  was  heard  upon  the  stairs,  and 
wondering  why  Wentworth  and  Harrington,  who  had  seldom 
failed  before,  did  not  arrive.  Captain  Vukovich,  too,  with 
thoughts  intent  on  the  cigar-shop  he  was  going  to  open,  and 
bent  on  consulting  the  young  men  with  regard  to  the  best 
situation,  and  perhaps  invoking  a  little  material  aid,  waited 
for  them,  meditatively  stroking  his  thin  moustache,  and  wander 
ing  up  and  down  the  fencing-school.  But  they  both  waited  in 
vain,  for  the  young  men  did  not  appear. 

Harrington  meanwhile,  up  after  four  hours'  sleep,  was 
closeted  with  Captain  Fisher,  telling  him  his  night's  adventure, 
the  astounded  Captain  swearing  tobacco  at  every  pause  in  the 
narrative,  with  his  head  all  askew,  like  a  marine  raven  who 
had  been  taught  nothing  but  imprecations  on  slavery  and 
slaveholders. 

Wentworth,  exhausted  by  his  night  of  suffering,  had  gone 
down  to  his  studio,  and  lay  there  asleep  on  a  sofa,  pale  and 
haggard,  in  the  dim-pictured,  shadowy  room.  Among  the  paint 
ings  and  sketches  around  the  chamber,  was  one  canvas  with  its 
face  turned  to  the  wall.  It  was  the  unfinished  portrait  of 
Emily.  On  the  easel,  illumined  by  the  pale  slanting  light  from 
the  single  unshaded  window,  was  the  canvas  wnich  held, 
sketched  in  in  dead  colors,  the  Death  of  Attucks.  Vaguely 
through  its  confused  gloom,  loomed  one  dark  figure  with  arm 
uplifted  in  menace  and  defiance. 

Emily  had  appeared  at  the  breakfast-table,  calm  and  pale, 
with  dark  circles  around  the  dimmed  lustre  of  her  eyes.  To  Mrs. 
Eastman's  anxious  inquiries,  she  had  simply  pleaded  indisposi 
tion,  and  after  the  meal,  at  which  Muriel  alone,  paler  than 
usual,  was  chatty  and  gay,  she  had  retired  to  her  room  to  col 
lect  her  thoughts  for  the  coming  hour  of  confession  and  de 
parture. 

Muriel,  sinking  from  her  assumed  gaiety  into  sobriety,  went 
to  market  near  by  in  Mount  Yernon  street,  returned  in  a  few 
minutes,  and,  sitting  alone  in  the  library,  resolutely  shut  out 
all  thought  for  the  present  regarding  the  mysterious  complica 
tion  of  affairs,  and  resumed  the  studies  she  had  begun  before 


292  HARBINGTON. 

breakfast,  bent  on  pursuing  them  till  Harrington  came  to  go 
with  her  to  Southac  street. 

In  the  mean  time  things  had  come  to  a  pretty  pass  in  the 
private  counting-room  of  Mr.  Atkins's  office  on  Long 
Wharf. 

"  Yes,  sir,  things  have  come  to  a  pretty  pass  when  such  an 
infernal  rascal  undertakes  to  let  a  black  beggar  loose  from 
aboard  my  brig,"  foamed  Captain  Bangham,  red  with  passion, 
and  pounding  the  desk  with  his  fist. 

The  merchant  sat  in  an  arm-chair  near  the  desk,  looking  at 
the  captain,  with  iron-clenched  jaws,  his  eyes  sparkling  with 
rage  in  his  set  blanched  face. 

"  If  I  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing  in  all  my  life,  Bangham  I" 
he  exclaimed,  slapping  both  arms  of  his  chair  with  his  palms, 
and  glaring  all  around  the  little  mahogany-furnished  office. 
"  But  where  were  you  when  this  was  done  ?" 

"  I,  sir  ?  Asleep  in  the  cabin,  Mr.  Atkins.  Never  knew  a 
thing  about  it,  sir,  till  this  morning.  Just  for  special  safety  I 
didn't  have  the  brig  hauled  up  to  the  dock  yesterday,  but  let 
her  lay  in  the  stream.  '  Jones,  says  I,  have  you  seen  the  nig 
ger  this  morning  ?'  '  No  I  haven't,  says  he,  cool  as  you  please. 
'  I  guess  I'll  take  a  look  at  him/  says  I,  and  so  I  took  a  bis 
cuit  and  a  can  of  water,  and  toted  down  to  the  hole  where  I 
had  the  nasty  devil  tied  up,  and  begod,  he  was  gone  !  I 
tumbled  up  on  deck:  '  Jones,'  I  shouted,  '  where's  the  nigger  ?' 
'  I  don't  know  where  he  is  now,'  says  he,  lazy  as  a  ship  in  the 
doldrums.  '  All  I  know  is,'  says  he,  '  that  I  rowed  him  ashore 

about  midnight,  and  told  him  to  put  for  it.'  By  " gasped 

Captain  Bangham,  with  a  frightful  oath,  "  I  was  so  mad  that 
I  couldn't  say  a  word.  I  just  ran  into  the  cabin,  and  when  I 
came  out,  Jones  wasn't  to  be  seen. — Hallo,  there  he  is  now  1" 
cried  the  captain,  starting  to  his  feet  and  pointing  out  of  the 
window  to  a  tall  figure  lounging  along  the  wharf,  and  looking 
at  the  shipping. 

The  merchant  jumped  from  his  chair,  threw  up  the  window, 
and  shouted,  "  Here,  you,  Jones  !  Come  in  here." 

The  figure  looked  up  nonchalantly,  and  lounged  across  the 
street  toward  the  office. 


HARRINGTON.  293 

"  He's  coming,"  said  the  merchant,  purple  with  excitement, 
and  sinking  back  into  his  chair. 

They  waited  in  silence,  and  presently  the  tall  figure  of  the 
mate  was  seen  in  the  outer  office,  through  the  glass  door, 
lounging  toward  them.  He  opened  the  door  in  a  minute,  and 
came  in  carelessly,  chewing  slowly,  and  nodding  once  to  Mr. 
Atkins.  A  tall  man,  dressed  sailor-fashion,  in  a  blue  shirt  and 
pea-jacket,  with  a  straw  hat  set  negligently  on  his  head,  and  a 
grave,  inscrutable,  sunburnt  face,  with  straight  manly  features 
and  dull  blue  eyes. 

"Mr.  Jones,"  said  the  merchant,  his  face  a  deeper  purple, 
but  his  voice  constrained  to  the  calm  of  settled  rage,  "  this  is 
a  fine  liberty  you  have  taken.  I  want  to  know  what  you 
mean  by  it  ?" 

"  What  do  you  refer  to,  Mr.  Atkins  ?"  returned  the  mate, 
stolidly. 

"  What  do  I  refer  to,  sir  ?  you  know  what  I  refer  to.  I 
refer  to  your  taking  that  man  from  my  brig,"  roared  the  mer 
chant. 

"Mr.  Atkins,"  replied  the  mate,  phlegmatically,  "Bang- 
ham,  there,  was  going  to  take  that  poor  devil  back  to  Orleans. 
You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  meant  he  should  do  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  did  mean  he  should  do  it,"  the  merchant  voci 
ferated. 

"  Then  you're  a  damned  scoundrel,"  said  the  mate,  with  the 
utmost  composure. 

Captain  Bangham  gave  a  long  whistle,  and  sat  mute  with 
stupefaction.  Mr.  Atkins  turned  perfectly  livid,  and  stared  at 
the  mate  with  his  mouth  pursed  into  an  oval  hole,  perfectly 
aghast  at  this  insolence,  and  almost  wondering  whether  he  had 
heard  aright. 

"  You  infernal  rascal,"  he  howled,  springing  to  his  feet  the 
next  instant,  purple  with  rage,  "  do  you  dare  to  apply  such  an 
epithet  to  me  ?  You — to  me  ?" 

"  To  you  ?"  thundered  the  seaman,  in  a  voice  that  made  Mr. 
Atkins  drop  into  his  chair  as  if  he  was  shot.  "  To  you  ?  And 
^who  are  you  ?  You  damned  lubberly,  purse-proud  aristocrat, 
do  you  want  me  to  take  you  by  the  heels  and  throw  you  out  of 


294  HAKEINGTON. 

that  window  ?  Call  me  that  name  again,  and  I'll  do  it  as 
soon  as  I'd  eat.  You,  indeed  ?  You're  the  Lord  High  Brown, 
aint  you?  You're  the  Lord  Knows  Who,  you  blasted  old 
money-grubber,  aint  you  !  You,  indeed  !" 

In  all  his  life,  Mr.  Atkins  had  never  been  so  spoken  to.  He 
sat  in  a  sort  of  horror,  gazing  with  open  mouth  and  glassy 
eyes  at  the  sturdy  face  of  the  seaman,  on  which  a  brown  flush 
had  burned  out,  and  the  firm,  lit  eyes  of  which  held  him 
spell-bound.  Bangham,  too — horror-stricken,  wonder-stricken, 
thunder-stricken — sat  staring  at  Jones  for  a  minute,  then  burst 
into  a  short,  rattling  laugh,  and  jumping  to  his  feet,  cried,  "Oh, 
he's  mad,  he's  mad,  he's  mad,  he's  got  a  calenture,  he's  got  a 
calenture,  he's  mad  as  a  March  hare,"  capering  and  hopping 
and  prancing,  meanwhile,  in  his  narrow  confine,  as  if  he  would 
jump  out  of  his  skin. 

"  You,  too,  Bangham,"  said  the  mate,  making  a  step 
toward  him,  with  a  menacing  gesture,  at  which  the  captain 
stopped  capering,  and  shrank,  while  Mr.  Atkins  slightly 
started  in  his  chair,  "  you  just  clap  a  stopper  on  that  ugly  mug 
of  yours,  and  stop  your  monkey  capers,  or  you'll  have  me  afoul 
of  you.  I  haven't  forgot  your  didoes  with  the  men  aboard  the 
Soliman.  Just  you  say  another  word  now,  and  I'll  put  in  a 
complaint  that'll  lay  you  by  the  heels  in  the  State  Prison, 
where  you  ought  to  have  been  long  ago,  you  ugly  pirate, 
you  !" 

The  captain  evidently  winced  under  this  threat,  which 
Mr.  Jones  delivered  with  ominous  gravity,  slowly  shaking, 
meanwhile,  his  clenched  fist  at  him. 

"  And  now  look  here,  you  brace  of  bloody  buccaneers,"  con 
tinued  the  irreverent  seaman,  "  short  words  are  best  words 
with  such  as  you.  I  untied  that  poor  old  moke  of  a  nigger 
last  night,  and  rowed  him  ashore.  What  are  ye  going  to  do 
about  it  ?" 

Evidently  a  question  hard  to  answer.  Merchant  and  cap 
tain,  stupefied  and  staring,  gave  him  no  reply. 

"  Hark  you,  now,  Atkins,"  he  went  on.     "  We  found  that 
man  half  dead  in  the  hold  when  we  were  three  days  out — a. 
sight  to  make  one's  flesh  crawl.    The  bloody  old  pirate  he'd 


HARRINGTON. 


295 


run  away  from,  had  put  a  spiked  collar  on  his  neck,  just  as  if 
he  was  a  brute,  with  no  soul  to  be  saved.  I'm  an  old  sea- 
dog — I  am  ;  and  Fve  seen  men  ill  treated  in  my  time,  but  I'm 
damned  if  I  ever  seen  a  man  ill-treated  like  that  God-forsaken 
nigger.  He'd  run  away,  and  no  blame  to  him  for  running 
away.  He'd  been  livin'  in  swamps  with  snakes  and  alligators, 
and  if  he  hadn't  no  right  to  his  freedom,  he'd  earned  one  fifty 
times  over,  and  it's  my  opinion  that  a  man  who  goes  through 
what  he  did  has  more  right  to  his  freedom  than  two  beggars 
like  you,  who  never  done  the  first  thing  to  deserve  it.  Mind 
that  now,  both  of  ye  1" 

The  mate  paused  a  moment,  hitching  up  his  trowsers,  and 
rolling  his  tobacco  from  one  side  of  his  twitching  mouth  to  the 
other,  and  then,  with  his  face  flushed,  and  his  blue  eye  gleam 
ing  savagely,  went  on. 

"What's  the  first  thing  that  brute  there  did  to  him? 
Kicked  him,  and  he  lyin'  half  dead.  Then  in  a  day  or  two, 
when  the  poor  devil  got  his  tongue,  he  told  how  he'd  got 
away,  and  the  sort  of  pirate  he'd  got  away  from.  God  I 
when  we  all  a'most  blubbered  like  babes,  what  did  that  curse 
there  do  ?  Knocked  the  man  down,  and  beat  his  head  on  the 
deck,  till  we  felt  like  mutiny  and  murder,  every  man  of  us  ! 
And  then  when  we'd  got  the  poor  devil  below,  sorter  com 
fortable,  down  comes  Bangham,  and  hauls  him  off  to  stick  him 
into  a  nasty  hole  under  hatches,  and  there  he  kep'  him  the 
whole  passage,  half-starved,  among  the  rats  and  cockroaches. 
Scarce  a  day  of  his  life  aboard,  that  he  didn't  go  down  and 
kick  and  maul  him.  He  couldn't  keep  his  hands  off  him — no, 
he  couldn't.  When  I  took  the  man  ashore  in  the  dead  o' 
night,  he  was  nothin'  but  a  bundle  o'  bones  and  nasty  rags, 
and  he  made  me  so  sick,  I  couldn't  touch  him.  That's  the 
state  he  was  in.  Now,  then,  look  here." 

The  mate  paused  again  for  a  moment,  turning  his  quid,  with 
his  face  working,  and  laying  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand  in 
the  palm  of  his  left,  began  again  in  a  voice  gruff  and  grum. 

"  That  infernal  buccaneer,  Bangham,"  he  said,  "  was  bent 
on  takin'  the  poor  devil  back  to  Orleans,  after  all  he'd  gone 
through  to  get  away.  Well,  he's  a  brute,  and  we  don't  ex- 


296  HAKKE5TGTON. 

pect  nothin'  of  brutes  like  him.  But  you're  a  Boston  mer 
chant,  Atkins,  and  callin'  yourself  a  Christian  man,  you  put  in 
your  oar  in  this  dirty  business,  and  was  goin'  to  help  Bang- 
ham.  You  thought  I  was  goin7  to  stand  by  and  see  you  do 
it.  No  !"  he  thundered,  with  a  tremendous  slap  of  his  right 
hand  on  the  palm  of  his  left,  which  made  both  the  merchant 
and  the  captain  start,  "  no  !  I  wasn't  goin'  to  stand  by  and 
see  you  do  it !  I'm  an  old  sea-dog  and  my  heart  is  tough  and 
hard,  but  I'm  damned  if  it's  hard  enough  to  stand  by  when 
such  a  sin  as  that's  afoot,  and  never  lend  a  hand  to  stop  it.  I 
took  that  man  out  of  your  clutches,  you  brace  of  pirates, 
and  I  set  him  adrift  I  You  think  I'm  afraid  to  own  it  ?  No, 
I'm  not,  begod  1  I  did  it.  Ephraim  Jones  is  my  name,  and  I 
come  from  Barnstable.  There's  where  I  come  from.  I'm  a 
Yankee  sailor,  and,  so  help  me  God,  I  could  never  see  the 
bunting  of  my  country  flying  at  the  truck  again,  if  I  let  you 
two  bloody  Algerine  thieves  carry  off  that  man  to  his  murder. 
That's  all  I've  got  to  say.  Take  the  law  of  me  now,  if  you 
like.  I  won't  skulk.  You'll  find  me  when  you  look  for  me. 
And  if  James  Flatfoot  don't  have  his  harpoon  into  both  of 
you  one  of  these  days,  then  there's  no  God,  that's  all !" 

Turning  on  his  heel  with  this  valediction,  which  consigned 
the  merchant  and  the  captain's  future  beyond  the  grave  to  the 
Devil,  who,  under  the  name  of  James  Flatfoot,  occupies  a 
prominent  place  in  marine  theology,  Mr.  Jones  carelessly 
lounged  out  of  the  private  room,  leaving  the  glass  door  open, 
and  with  a  nonchalant  glance  at  the  three  or  four  startled 
clerks  and  book-keepers  who  sat  and  stood  at  their  desks 
wondering  what  had  been  going  on  within,  for  they  had  only 
caught  confused  scraps  of  the  stormy  colloquy,  he  went  down 
stairs,  with  a  load  off  his  mind  which  had  been  gathering 
there  during  the  whole  voyage  of  the  Soliman. 

For  a  moment  after  his  departure,  Mr.  Atkins  sat  mute  and 
still,  feeling  like  one  in  a  horrid  dream.  Roused  presently  by 
a  deep-drawn  breath  from  Captain  Bangham,  he  wheeled  his 
chair  around  to  the  desk,  and  taking  out  his  white  handker 
chief,  wiped  away  the  cold  sweat  which  had  started  out  on  his 
face  and  forehead. 


HARRINGTON.  297 

"  What  are  we  going  to  do  now,  Mr.  Atkins  ?"  said  the 
captain. 

"  I  don't  know,  Bangham,"  replied  the  merchant  in  a  voice 
like  the  faint  voice  of  a  sick  man.  "I  should  like  to  have 
that  scoundrel  arrested.  Such  insolence  I  never  heard  in  all  my 
life.  My  God  !  what  are  we  coming  to  in  this  country  when 
a  low  fellow  like  that  can  presume  to  talk  so  to  a  man  of  my 
standing  !" 

He  murmured  these  words  feebly,  and  again  wiping  his  face, 
sat  with  his  eyes  glassy  and  his  jaw  working. 

"Mr.  Atkins,''  said  Bangham,  after  a  pause,  "this  black 
curse  has  got  off,  but  he  must  be  somewhere  in  the  city.  If  I 
should  happen  to  meet  him  about  town  anywhere  " 

"  Just  seize  him,"  cried  the  merchant,  with  a  start.  "  Lay 
hands  upon  him  at  once,  and  carry  him  'aboard  the  vessel. 
You  can  say,  if  anybody  interferes,  that  he  is  a  thief,  and  that 
you're  taking  him  to  the  police-office." 

"  I'll  do  it,"  exclaimed  the  captain,  with  an  oath.  "  I'll 
hang  around  Nigger  Hill,  where  he's  likely  to  be,  and  if  I 
meet  him,  off  he'll  go.  It'll  be  horrid  if  we  don't  find  him, 
and  they  should  happen  to  hear  of  it  down  in  Orleans." 

"  Indeed  it  will,  Bangham,"  replied  the  merchant.  "  Though, 
of  course,  we  could  explain  it  satisfactorily.  Still,  there's  the 
trouble  of  the  explanation,  and  it  would  be  far  better  if  we 
could  return  the  rascal.  That  would  settle  the  whole  thing  at 
once." 

"  By  the  way,  have  you  told  Lafitte  anything  about  this  ?" 
inquired  the  captain,  anxiously. 

"  God  bless  me,  no  !"  replied  Mr.  Atkins,  hurriedly. 
"  Latitte  musn't  know  anything  about  this.  We  must  keep 
it  from  him." 

"  What  is  it  you  must  keep  from  me,  my  dear  friends  ?"  said 
a  smooth,  courteous  voice. 

They  both  started,  and  turned  around.  There  stood  Mr. 
Lafitte,  smiling  a  bland  sardonic  smile.  So  still — so  cool — so 
unruffled.  It  almost  seemed  as  if  he  had  outgrown  upon  them 
from  the  air.  But  he  had  come  softly  through  the  outer 

13* 


298  HARRINGTON. 

office,  and  stood  just  within  the  glass  door,  which  Jones  had 
left  open. 

"  Better  not  keep  anything  from  me,  my  dear  Mends," 
blandly  continued  the  Southerner,  smiling  stilly  down  upon 
their  blank  and  ghast  faces.  "Because  I  am  the  very  devil 
for  finding  out  things  that  are  kept  from  me.  Besides,  frank 
ness  is  a  virtue — a  positive  virtue." 

He  closed  the  glass  door  behind  him,  and  entering,  took  a 
chair,  and  removed  his  Panama  hat,  smiling  stilly  all  the 
•while,  with  his  tawny,  blood-specked,  glossy  eyes  slowly  and 
almost  imperceptibly  roving  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  Lafitte,"  gasped  the  merchant,  feeling  as  if  he  was  about 
to  faint,  "  don't  blame  me.  I  meant  it  for  the  best." 

"  Blame  you,  my  friend  I"  returned  the  Southerner, 
smoothly,  with  an  air  of  tender  reproach  which  was  atrocious  ; 
"blame  you  I  Could  I  be  so  cruel  ?  Ah,  no  !  Bangham,  my 
love,  how  are  you  ?  It  is  long  since  I  have  seen  you.  The  last 
time  I  saw  you,  my  Bangham,  was  at  the  St.  Charles  Hotel — 
and  oh,  my  friend,  how  drunk  you  were  !  But  you  are  not 
drunk  to-day,  dear  captain.  Ah,  no  !  To-day  we  can  appeal 
from  Philip  Bangham  drunk  to  Philip  Bangham  sober.  Let 
us  then  appeal  to  you  to  tell  us  what  is  the  mystery." 

The  captain  reddened  under  this  address,  and  looking 
exceedingly  nonplused,  fidgeted  with  his  necktie  as  if  it 
choked  him. 

"  Lafitte,  don't  joke,"  said  Mr.  Atkins,  nervously.  "  Don't, 
I  beg  of  you.  I  feel  ill  already,  and  you  disturb  me.  Listen. 
Here  is  the  trouble.  One  of  your  slaves  was  found  in  Bang- 
ham's  vessel  when  he  was  three  days  out,  and  came  on  here  to 
Boston.  We  kept  him  bound  in  the  hold,  intending  to  have 
him  sent  back  to  you,  and  last  night  the  infernal  scoundrel  of 
a  mate  let  him  go,  and  we've  lost  him." 

"And  you  were  going  to  keep  this  from  me,  were  you?" 
said  Mr.  Lafitte,  blandly,  all  the  tiger  seeming  to  condense  in 
to  his  glossy,  tawny  orbs,  while  his  smile  remained  serene  and 
still.  "  Really,  my  dear  Atkins,  you  were  not  frank."  « 

"  Oh,  my  God  !"  exclaimed  the  merchant,  "don't  talk  so  1 
What  was  the  use  of  disturbing  you  ?  We  were  going  to 


HAEEINGTON.  299 

institute  a  search  for  the  negro,  and  have  him  returned  to  you 
as  quickly  and  quietly  as  possible." 

"  Good  friend  !  good  Atkins  !"  said  the  Southerner,  with 
gentle  approval.  "  So  considerate  of  you.  I  really  hope  you 
may  find  the  runaway,  for  if  you  shouldn't,  and  it  gets  noised 
on  the  Levee,  your  house  will  suffer.  Of  course,  I  wouldn't 
mention  it  myself,  but  these  things  always  get  out.  The  sail 
ors,  you  know  !  Yery  indiscreet  those  sailors — ah,  very,  very!" 

"  Depend  on  my  doing  everything  I  can,  Lafitte,"  hurriedly 
replied  the  merchant,  uncertain  whether  the  Southerner's 
words  held  a  menace  or  no.  "  We  will  ransack  the  city. 
Suppose  you  get  a  warrant  out  for  him — how  will  that  do  ?" 

"  No,"  answered  Mr.  Lafitte,  blandly.  "  I  should  prefer 
not.  Since  you  lost  him,  you  ought  in  justice  to  find  him. 
If  you  don't  succeed,  we  may  try  the  police.  But,  apropos, 
you  do  not  tell  me  the  boy's  name." 

"  He  called  himself  Antony,"  replied  Bangham. 

They  almost  shuddered  to  see  the  silent  change  that  came 
to  the  rich  brunette  visage  of  the  Southerner.  His  complex 
ion  became  purple  and  livid  in  spots,  his  nostrils  dilated,  his 
eyes  were  steady  orbs  of  cruel  gloss,  with  the  blood-specks 
distinct  upon  their  tawn.  Slowly  swaying  in  his  chair  for  a 
moment,  he  stopped  in  this  movement,  and  spoke. 

"It  is  Antony,  is  it  ?"  he  said,  in  a  low,  smooth  voice. 
"  Gentlemen,  I  urge  you  to  find  that  slave  of  mine.  He  is  a 
wretch  whom  I  wish  to  see  once  more.  When  you  told  me 
you  had  a  boy  of  mine,  I  thought  it  must  be  one  of  my 
brother's,  who  ran  away  the  week  before  I  left.  I  did  not 
imagine  it  was  Antony,  for  I  thought  he  was  done  for  in  the 
swamp." 

"  Where,  Mr.  Lafitte  ?"  asked  the  merchant. 

"In  the  swamp,"  repeated  Lafitte.  "  That  scoundrel,  Mr. 
Atkins,  flew  upon  me,  and  left  me  for  dead  on  the  floor  of  my 
house.  Then  he  ran  for  the  swamp,  half-killing  my  overseer 
on  the  way.  We  roused  the  neighbors  and  hunted  for  him 
three  days  and  part  of  a  fourth,  and  at  last  fiading  his  clothes 
near  a  bayou,  we  concluded  he  was  food  for  alligators. 
Though  why  we  should  find  his  clothes,  and  not  him,  was  a 


300  HAttRINQTON. 

mystery  to  me.  And  so  he  got  to  Boston,  after  all.  Now 
where  do  you  expect  to  find  him,  gentlemen  ?r 

"Well,  Mr..Lafitte,  I  don't  exactly  know,"  returned  the 
merchant,  dubiously;  "but  Bangham  here  will  look  round 
Nigger  Hill,  a  quarter  where  the  colored  people  herd  together. 
The  best  way  would  be  to  get  out  a  search  warrant,  and  put 
the  matter  in  the  hands  of  the  city  marshal." 

"  Listen  to  me,  Atkins,"  said  the  Southerner.  "  Fve  got 
a  clue.  Several  months  ago  I  received  a  letter  offering  to 
purchase  this  fellow.  Now,  eight  or  nine  years  ago  his 
brother  William  ran  away  from  me,  and  it  was  clear  to  me, 
when  I  received  this  letter,  that  whoever  sent  it  knew  where 
William  was,  and  was  probably  put  up  to  it  by  him." 

"Well,  who  did  send  it?"  demanded  Mr.  Atkins. 

"  That  letter,"  pursued  Lafitte,  "  was  postmarked  from 
Philadelphia,  and  the  answer  was  to  be  sent  to  a  Mr.  Joseph 
House,  who,  it  seems,  was  to  act  as  agent  in  the  matter.  I 
called  on  House,  and  was  told  by  him  that  the  person  who 
wrote  the  letter  lived  in  London.  In  fact,  he  showed  me  the 
person's  name  and  address  in  a  London  Directory,  and  he  was 
so  serious  about  it,  that  I  swear  I  was  thrown  off  the  track. 
But  I  had  my  misgivings  afterward,  and  the  more  I  thought 
of  it  the  stronger  they  grew.  Mr.  Atkins,  that  letter  was 
signed  John  Harrington." 

"John  Harrington  !"  exclaimed  the  merchant,  starting  and 
scowling.  "  You  don't  mean  to  say  " 

"Mr.  Atkins,"  interrupted  Lafitte,  "  when  you  told  me  that 
fellow's  name  who  came  into  the  Abolition  meeting  last  night 
with  your  lovely  niece,  it  flashed  upon  me  at  once  that  he  was 
the  man  that  wrote  the  letter." 

"  Upon  my  word,"  said  the  merchant,  "  this  is  odd.  But 
this  Harrington's  poor  as  poverty.  How  should  he  be  buy 
ing  your  negro  ?" 

Mr.  Lafitte  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Who  knows  ?"  he  returned.  "  Perhaps  the  dear  William 
has  earned  the  cash,  and  wants  to  treat  himself  to  a  bit  of 
black  brother  in  his  old  age.  Perhaps,"  he  added,  with  a  sly, 
sardonic  smile,  "  your  lovely  niece  wants  to  do  a  little  philan- 


HARRINGTON.  301 

thropy  for  him.  She's  rich,  you  told  me.  Your  Boston 
ladies  are  so  fond  of  the  philanthropy  business,  you  know. 
And  Harrington's  sweet  upon  her,  isn't  he  ?  Who  knows 
but  that  he  has  put  her  up  to  it.  He  looks  just  like  one  of 
those  noble  fools  we  read  of.  Now,  what  will  you  wager  he 
doesn't  know  this  dear  William,  and  hasn't  been  touched  by 
the  sorrows  of  that  black  angel  ?  Atkins,  keep  your  eye  on 
Harrington  to  find  William,  and  finding  William,  perhaps 
you'll  find  Antony." 

"  Upon  my  word,  Lafitte,  you're  the  very  devil,"  cried  the 
merchant,  with  a  harsh  laugh,  looking  at  the  visage  of  the 
Southerner,  which  was  lit  with  an  infernal  smile. 

"  That's  your  clue,"  said  the  latter.  "  Just  follow  it,  and 
you'll  find  I'm  right."- 

"  But  how  am  I  to  follow  it  ?"  returned  the  merchant. 
"  There's  any  quantity  of  black  Williams  in  Boston,  probably, 
and  who  knows  what  name  your  man  goes  by  now  ?" 

"  Egad,"  replied  Mr.  Lafitte,  his  face  darkening,  "  I  didn't 
think  of  that." 

"Had  your  man  William  any  other  name?"  asked  the 
merchant. 

"  Name  ?"  scoffed  the  Southerner.  "  The  black  cattle  change 
their  names  with  their  masters.  This  fellow  would  be  called 
by  mine,  if  he  was  called  anything  but  William.  I  bought  him 
and  his  brother  with  a  lot  of  others  off  the  estate  of  old  Madame 
Roux." 

"Roux?  Hold  on!"  exclaimed  Atkins.  '"Roux?  By 
George,  that's  the  name  of  the  colored  man  Serena — that's  my 
sister — recommended  to  us,  and  we  got  him  to  do  some  white 
washing  and  window-cleaning  this  spring  1" 

"  Your  sister  ?"  interrogated  Lafitte. 

"  Yes,  my  sister,  Mrs.  Eastman.  She's  the  mother  of  the 
young  lady  you  saw  last  night." 

Mr.  Lafitte  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  shook  with  long, 
silent  merriment,  outward  token  of  the  raging  floods  of  devil 
ish  joy  which  swelled  within  him. 

"  There  you  have  it,  dear  Atkins,"  he  chuckled,  at  length. 
"There  you  have  it.  Follow  up  Roux,  my  boy,  follow  up 


302  HARRINGTON. 

Roux.  Set  Bangham  to  look  after  the  dear  William.  My 
own  Bangham.  Whom  I  love,"  and  Mr.  Lafitte  ogled  the 
captain  in  a  manner  which  would  have  been  purely  ridiculous 
if  it  had  not  been  superlatively  infernal. 

Bangham  reddened,  and  looked  foolish  and  uncomfortable 
under  these  affectionate  regards. 

"  I  guess  I'll  go  out  and  see  to  the  cargo,"  he  said,  rising. 
"  The  stevedores  are  unlading,  you  know,  Mr.  Atkins." 

"  That's  right,  Bangham,"  returned  the  merchant.  "  Come 
back  soon,  and  we'll  make  arrangements  for  this  other  mat 
ter." 

"  Au  revoir,  Bangham.  God  bless  you,"  cried  the  South 
erner,  after  the  departing  captain.  "  And  now,  Atkins,"  he 
continued,  drawing  up  his  chair,  "let's  have  a  talk  about 
business,  and  get  that  off  our  minds,  before  we  follow  up  that 
dear  William  and  that  dear  Antony." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE    ROAR    OF     ST.    DOMINGO. 

CAPTAIN  BANGHAM,  with  a  mortal  aversion  to  Lafitte,  hovered 
about  the  outside  of  the  glass  door,  and  left  the  office  several 
tunes,  before  the  talk  on  business  was  concluded.  In  those 
beatific  days  Cotton  was  King,  and  His  Majesty's  concerns 
required  a  great  deal  of  mercantile,  as  well  as  political,  atten 
tion. 

It  was  about  eleven  o'clock  when,  the  talk  on  business  con 
cluded,  Mr.  Lafitte  strolled  up  State  street,  with  the  intention 
of  dropping  in  at  Parker's  to  lunch.  If  anything  had  been 
needed  to  complete  his  elation,  the  warm  and  beautiful  blue 
day  which  shone  upon  the  crowded  city,  would  have  done  it. 
Like  Sir  Ralph  the  Rover,  in  Southey's  poem,  his  heart  was 
joyful  to  excess  ;  and  equally  true  was  it  that  like  that  Rover, 
this  Rover's  mirth  was  wickedness.  He  felt,  as  he  himself 
would  have  expressed  it,  refreshingly  wicked. 


HARRINGTON.  303 

Lunch  over,  and  a  drink  taken,  Mr.  Lafitte  thought  it  would 
be  pleasant  diversion  to  visit  that  Nigger  Hill  he  had  heard  so 
much  about,  and  see  how  the  colored  brethren  were  lodged- 
Enchanted  with  the  idea,  he  engaged  a  carriage,  and  lighting  a 
cigar,  got  in,  and  told  the  driver  where  to  carry  him. 

The  carriage  set  off,  and  Mr.  Lafitte,  lolling  back  on  the 
cushions,  smoked  placidly,  and  indolently  gazed  out  of  the 
window  at  the  passengers.  Presently,  instead  of  passengers  to 
gaze  at,  there  were  the  elegant  aristocratic  dwellings  in  the 
streets  on  Beacon  Hill,  and  soon  after  there  were  the  dingy 
houses  of  the  negro  quarter. 

His  cigar  smoked  out,  Mr.  Lafitte  enjoyed  whatever  there 
was  to  enjoy  in  the  prospect  the  carriage  window  afforded.  It 
was  pretty  near  dinner-time  in  that  region,  and  most  of  the 
people  were  indoors.  A  few  colored  men  and  women  stood  at 
some  of  the  thresholds  or  looked  out  at  the  windows,  and 
colored  urchins  were  playing  in  the  streets.  The  carriage  driv 
ing  slowly,  Belknap  street,  South  Russell  street,  Butolph  street, 
Garden  street,  Centre  street,  May  street,  Grove  street,  and  all 
the  streets  of  the  quarter,  passed  in  successive  review  under 
the  interested  and  inspecting  eyes  of  the  gallant  Southerner. 

In  Grove  street,  a  fancy  came  upon  him  to  walk  a  few 
steps  and  note  the  effect  from  the  pavement.  Stopping  the 
carriage,  he  got  out,  and  bidding  the  driver  wait  there  for  him, 
he  walked  on,  and  turned  the  corner  into  Southac  street. 

Walking  slowly,  and  contemplatively  twirling  his  moustache, 
while  he  softly  hummed  an  air,  he  gazed  with  a  roving  eye  at 
the  squalid  and  sunlit  houses  of  'mingled  brick  and  wood 
which  stood  in  the  vertical  light  on  either  side  of  the  street. 
There  were  few  people  about,  fewer  even  than  he  had  seen  in 
the  streets  he  had  passed  through,  and  beginning  to  find  it  a 
bore,  he  was  turning  to  go  back  to  the  carriage,  when  his  eye 
chanced  to  rest  on  the  closed  window  of  a  house  obliquely  op 
posite  to  him,  and  stopping  in  the  midst  of  his  humming,  his 
hand  fell  from  his  moustache,  and  he  stood  still. 

There,  behind  the  closed  window  of  the  second  story,  ab 
sently  gazing  out  straight  before  him,  stood  William  Roux  ! 
Mr.  Lafitte  knew  him  at  the  first  glance,  and  an  infernal  joy 


304:  HARRINGTON. 

bathed  his  heart.  Afraid  the  next  instant  that  he  would  be 
seen,  he  drew  back  into  a  narrow  alley  near  by,  still  gazing  up 
at  the  window.  But  he  had  no  reason  for  apprehension,  for 
the  negro  was  apparently  lost  in  reverie,  and  stood  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  looking  straight  before  him. 

The  entire  abstraction  of  Roux's  manner  suggested  to 
Mr.  Lafitte  that  there  was  no  other  person  up  there  in  the 
room,  and  a  demoniac  idea  leaped  at  once  into  the  brain 
of  the  slaveholder  and  took  possession  of  him.  Here  was  the 
carriage  within  fifty  paces  just  round  the  corner.  What  was 
to  prevent  him  from  quietly  walking  up  into  that  room,  taking 
Roux  by  the  arm,  and  quickly  marching  him  off  to  it  ?  It 
flashed  into  his  mind  just  how  Roux  would  behave.  The  sub 
missive,  docile  negro,  so  different  from  that  sullen,  fiery  An 
tony,  overcome  with  fright  he  would  never  think  of  struggling, 
and  with  the  old  servile  habit  of  instant  obedience  falling  again 
upon  him,  cowed  by  the  stern  mandate,  paralyzed  by  the 
strong  grasp,  thunder-stricken  by  the  unexpected  appearance 
of  his  old  master,  he  would  just  march  along  without  a  word. 
Quickly  he  would  walk  him,  cram  him  into  the  carriage,  pull 
down  the  curtains,  and  drive  away  like  fury.  Ha  !  the  mo 
ment  when  he  should  have  him  safe,  rushed  upon  his  brain  like 
fire.  One  bold  stroke — now  for  it  ! 

Emerging  from  the  alley,  he  quickly  crossed  the  s  treet,  and 
mounted  the  wooden  steps  which  he  saw  led  up  to  Roux's 
room.  The  door  was  ajar,  and  pausing  for  one  moment  to 
listen,  with  torrents  of  hellish  exultation  pouring  through  his 
being,  he  recognized  by  the  silence  that  Roux  was  alone. 
Softly  pushing  open  the  door,  which  floated  inward  without  a 
sound,  he  saw  his  victim  standing  with  his  back  to  him  at  the 
window,  and  crossing  the  floor  on  noiseless  tiptoe,  he  tapped 
him  on  the  shoulder. 

Roux  turned  with  a  start,  and  with  his  black  face  flaring  into 
ashen  fright,  he  would  have  fallen  to  the  floor,  but  Lafitte 
caught  him  by  the  throat  with  both  hands,  and  upheld  him. 

"  Not  one  word,  you  dog !"  he  hissed,  glaring  into  his  bulg 
ing  eyes.  "  I  have  you !  Stand  1" 

He  released  his  throat,  and  Roux  stood  with  a  terrific  look 


HARRINGTON.  305 

of  agony  on  his  visage,  which  seemed  at  once  to  have  grown 
thin  and  grey. 

"  Oh,  Master  Lafitte  !"  he  gasped  in  a  horrified  whisper,  his 
whole  frame  shaking  as  if  he  had  the  palsy. 

"  Silence,  cur  I"  hissed  the  slaveholder,  grasping  his  arm  like 
a  vice.  "  Come  with  me !  Not  a  word — not  a  sign — or  I'll 
dash  your  brains  out." 

Roux,  though  not  a  strong  nature,  was  no  coward,  and 
under  ordinary  circumstances,  he  would  have  fought  to  the 
death  for  his  liberty.  But  this  horrible  phantom  that  had  risen 
upon  him  1  It  was  not  a  man — it  was  Fate — it  was  the 
anaconda,  and  he  crushed  in  the  vast  and  muscular  gripe  of 
its  folds  1  The  deadening  ether  of  utter  horror  fell  upon  him, 
and  passive  as  one  falling  from  a  precipice,  with  the  iron  cluteh 
of  his  master  on  his  arm  he  moved  with  him  to  the  door. 

At  the  first  step,  there  was  a  bounce  in  the  entry,  and  Tug- 
mutton  appeared  on  the  threshold.  In  less  than  a  second,  the 
blobber-cheeked  guffaw-grin  of  glee  fell  from  the  fat  face  of  the 
broad-limbed  Puck  into  a  shock-haired  white-eyed  stare  of 
goblin  terror,  and  with  a  shrill  yell  he  vanished.  His  chatter 
ing  screech  outside  was  heard  by  Lafitte  just  as  he  got  within 
a  yard  o£  the  door  with  his  victim,  and  at  the  same  instant, 
there  was  a  bound,  and.  Harrington  bursting  into  the  room 
like  a  thunderbolt,  dashed  the  slaveholder  with  a  crash  against 
the  wall. 

Roux  tottered  back  and  fell  prone  in  a  dead  swoon.  Pale 
as  marble,  dilated,  regnant,  terrible,  eyes  and  nostrils  open, 
Harrington  stood  over  his  prostrate  body,  his  front  turned  in 
war  upon  his  foe,  while  Muriel,  brave  and  radiant,  sprang  like 
flame  into  the  room  by  his  side. 

"  Spawn  of  hell  1"  howled  the  Southerner,  "  you  die  !" 

With  the  hoarse  snarl  of  a  tiger,  he  came  rushing  at  Har 
rington,  bowie-knife  in  hand.  Muriel  would  have  leaped  be 
tween  her  lover  and  the  weapon,  but  Harrington  held  her  back 
with  his  left  arm,  and  stood  fronting  his  enemy  with  terrible  and 
dauntless  eyes,  which  stopped  the  infuriated  wretch  in  mid- 
course  like  a  rampart  of  swords.  Lafitte  was  brave  as  a  brute 
is  brave,  but  the  Bengal  tiger  will  not  spring  against  a  man 


306  HARRINGTON. 

when  his  godhood  is  in  his  eyes,  and  arrested  by  the  regal 
prowess  of  that  bright  and  fearless  gaze,  the  livid  fiend  stood 
all  acrouch,  the  knife  gleaming  in  his  hand,  his  wild-beast 
orbs  drained  of  then*  bloody  fire,  and  his  breath  breaking  in 
gasping  snarls  on  the  silence.  The  next  instant  he  slunk  back 
shivering,  and  stood  with  the  knife  in  his  nerveless  grasp,  con 
quered  ! 

Harrington  dropped  his  arm,  which  had  lain  like  a  bar  across 
the  bosom  of  Muriel,  and  advanced  upon  the  cowering  wretch 
before  him. 

"  Listen  1"  said  he,  in  a  voice  like  bronze,  deep,  solemn  and 
awful.  "  Listen  to  those  murmurs  in  the  street  1  Hark  I" 

In  the  dead  hush,  there  was  a  noise  like  a  coming  sea, 
pierced  with  shrill  sounds  like  the  distant  screams  of  the  curlew. 

"  Man  I"  thundered  Harrington,  "  you  came  here  to  rob 
your  fellow  of  all  God  gave  him  1  You  dared  to  risk  your  life 
among  these  plundered  and  trampled  poor — despoiled  and 
outraged  daily  by  you  and  such  as  you,  1  Are  you  ready  to  die  ?" 

Silent,  amidst  the  ominous  gathering  murmurs  and  inarticu 
late  shrill  sounds,  the  slaveholder  stood,  with  his  livid,  ghastly, 
sweat-bedabbled  face  turned  toward  Harrington's.  Suddenly 
the  surging  ocean  swelled  and  tossed  iu  wild  confnsion,and  sinking 
into  a  pouring  rush  of  running  feet,  rose  again  in  a  savage  and 
appalling  roar. 

"  Hark  to  the  coming  of  your  doom  !"  cried  Harrington, 
his  voice  pealing  up  amidst  the  din,  and  his  arms  uplifted  like 
a  prophet  of  ruin.  "  Hark  to  the  hoarse  blood-roar  !  Hark 
to  the  roar  of  St.  Domingo  !  They  come,  the  people  you 
have  trodden  upon,  they  come  to  tear  you  limb  from  limb  !  In 
five  minutes  your  head  will  roll  in  that  street — your  body  be 
trampled  into  bloody  mire  I" 

"  My  God  !"  shrieked  the  trembling  wretch,  "  am  I  to  die 
here  like  a  rat  I  Let  me  go — let  me  fight  my  way  through 
the  hounds  !" 

Brandishing  the  knife,  he  rushed  with  forlorn  bravery  for  the 
door. 

"  Back  !"  thundered  Harrington.  "  That  way  leads  to  cer 
tain  death  1" 


HARBINGTON.  307 

He  sprang  upon  him  as  he  spoke,  wrested  the  knife  from  his 
hand,  and  hurling  it  across  the  room,  flung  him  back  to  the 
wall.  The  wretched  man  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  ! 

"  They  come  !  they  are  here  I"  cried  Harrington. 

He  sprang  to  the  open  door,  and  stood  on  the  threshold, 
while  amidst  a  tumbling  sea  of  shouts  and  yells,  came  a  tumul 
tuous  rush  of  feet  on  the  wooden  stairs. 

"  Save  me,  save  me,"  wailed  the  miserable  creature,  rushing 
forward,  and  flinging  himself  on  his  knees  with  clasped  hands 
at  the  feet  of  Muriel. 

"  Up,  up,"  she  cried,  "  quick,  quick,  and  stay  here." 

She  dragged  him  up  on  his  feet  as  she  spoke,  and  hurrying 
him  into  the  inner  room,  closed  the  door  upon  him,  and  flew 
with  the  courage  of  an  angel  to  the  side  of  Harrington,  just 
as  the  dense  and  raving  mob  of  negroes  poured  headlong  into 
the  passage-way. 

He  stood  on  the  threshold,  resolute  and  tranquil,  knowing 
well  that  his  own  life  was  in  imminent  danger  at  that  moment, 
as  well  as  the  slaveholder's.  Muriel  stood  by  him,  as  calm  and 
brave  in  that  terrible  crisis  as  he.  Arrested  in  their  fury  by 
these  strong,  still  presences,  the  sullen-browed  and  heavy-lipped 
grotesque  throng  hung  lowering  and  swaying  for  the  rush  of 
the  next,  instant.  In  their  front  stood  the  tall  and  muscular 
form  of  Elkanah  Brown,  with  his  knife  in  his  hand. 

"Mr.  Brown,"  said  Harrington,  with  magnetic  dignity, 
"  come  here." 

The  stalwart  negro  stepped  forward,  with  a  face  of  fearful 
fierceness,  amidst  a  deep  hush  in  front,  while  shouts  and  mur 
murs  still  rose  behind. 

"  Mr.  Brown,"  said  Harrington,  in  the  same  tone,  "  I  want 
to  speak  with  you  a  moment  in  this  room,  and  I  want  you  to 
ask  our  friends  to  remain  where  they  are  till  you  come  out  to 
them." 

The  negro  hesitated  for  a  moment,  fiercely  glaring  at  Har 
rington.  Then,  his  glance  falling  on  the  sweet  and  solemn  face 
of  Muriel,  grew  gentler  ;  and  slowly  turning,  with  a  limber- 
hipped,  insouciant  movement,  he  waved  his  hand  to  his  fellows. 

"  Just  wait  here  till  I  come  out,"  he  said  with  a  command- 


308  HAEEINGTON. 

| 

ing  air  ;  then  turning  again,  he  entered  the  room,  amidst  a 
wild  swarming  of  voices,  and  Harrington,  closing  the  door, 
bolted  it  and  faced  him. 

"  Is  William  Roux  dead  ?"  asked  Brown,  glancing  gloomily 
at  the  prostrate  body. 

"  No,  he  is  unharmed — he  has  only  fainted,"  said  Harrington. 

"  Where's  that  soul-driving  hound  of  a  kidnapper  ?"  roared 
the  negro,  gnashing  his  teeth,  and  rolling  his  fierce  and  torrid 
eyes  around  the  room.  "  The  boy  said  he  was  in  here.  Where've 
you  hid  him  ?  Let  me  at  him,  till  I  cut  his  heart  out  !" 

"  Listen  to  me,  Brown,"  said  Harrington,  in  a  solemn  and 
majestic  voice,  fronting  the  roused  passion  of  the  negro  with 
his  soul  divinely  splendid  in  his  eyes.  "  You  are  a  brave  man 
and  the  son  of  the  brave.  Your  father  fought  in  the  black 
corps  with  Jackson,  at  New  Orleans.  Face  to  face  with 
the  foe,  in  honorable  war.  You  yourself,  walked  from  slavery 
in  Louisiana  to  freedom  in  Massachusetts,  knife  in  hand,  through 
a  land  of  enemies.  You  slew  the  hounds  that  followed  you. 
You  struck  dead  the  armed  hunters  that  opposed  you.  Man 
to  man,  in  honorable  war,  with  the  odds  against  you,  you 
proved  yourself  a  brave  man.  Is  it  for  you  to  stain  the  bravery 
of  your  manhood  now,  with  the  blood  of  a  murder  ?" 

Half-subdued  by  the  electric  majesty  of  Harrington's  bear 
ing,  for  the  speech  had  poured  from  him  as  by  inspiration, 
and  he  stood  masterful  and  dauntless,  the  centre  of  magnetic 
forces  such  as  darted  from  Rienzi  to  quell  the  tempest  fury 
of  old  Rome  ;  gratified,  too,  by  the  just  tribute  to  his  prowess 
which  the  young  man  had  paid  him,  and  with  his  nobler  nature 
dimly  rising  through  the  black  and  bloody  seethe  of  vengeance, 
the  negro  remained  for  a  moment  in  silence,  with  an  irresolute 
and  startled  air,  while  the  shouts  and  murmurs  swelled  and 
tossed  like  a  rising  sea  of  sound  around  the  dwelling. 

"  Murder,  Mr.  Harrington  ?"  he  faltered. 

"  Yes,  murder,"  replied  Harrington.  "  This  base  wretch 
lies  here,  helpless  and  at  your  mercy.  To  kill  himv  and  you  a 
thousand  to  one,  is  murder.  You  who  never  slew  a  man  save 
in  fair  fight,  will  you  slaughter  him  and  the  helpless  in  your 
hands  ?  Think  1  When  this  hour  of  passion  is  over,  will  you 


HARRINGTON.  309 

feel  proud  that  this  miserable  wretch  was  butchered  by  you  in 
his  helplessness  ?  Think  I" 

The  negro  stood  glaring  at  Harrington  with  parted  lips, 
and  sombre  and  torrid  eyes. 

"  He  took  the  risk  himself  I"  he  answered  sullenly,  with 
mounting  rage.  "  The  soul-driving  hound  dared  to  come  here 
where  we  live,  and  try  to  drag  off  one  of  us.  What  right  has 
he  to  mercy  ?  Look  at  that  man  there,  scared  into  a  dead 
faint  !  He  did  it  "— 

"  He  did  worse!"  cried  Harrington,  with  stern  energy  :  "he 
enslaved  a  hundred  of  your  people  !  He  heaped  on  them 
every  wrong  and  outrage  worse  than  death.  They  were  in  his 
power,  and  he  never  spared  them.  Now  the  power  is  yours. 
How  will  you  use  it  ?  As  basely  as  he  did  ?  Will  you 
degrade  yourself  by  following  his  example  ?  Will  you  lower 
yourself  to  the  level  of  a  brute  that  has  not  manhood  enough 
for  mercy  ?'' 

The  negro  stood  touched,  but  irresolute.  Harrington  saw 
that  the  crisis  had  come,  and  that  a  feather  either  way  would 
turn  the  scale.  A  desperate  inspiration  came  to  him,  and 
with  a  bound  he  tore  open  the  door  of  the  inner  room,  and 
dragged  Lafitte  front  to  front  with  the  negro. 

"  Look  at  him  !"  he  cried.  "  Helpless,  miserable,  merciless 
wretch,  I  cast  him  on  your  mercy!  Show  him  what  it  is  to  be 
a  man.  Teach  him  the  lesson  that  he  never  learned — how 
the  brave  can  spare  ;  and  let  him  crawl  home  with  the  shame 
upon  him  that  he  owes  his  life  to  the  compassion  of  the  people 
he  would  destroy  1" 

The  words  swept  from  Harrington's  lips  like  a  storm.  An 
awful  moment  of  silence  succeeded,  disturbed  only  by  the  roar 
ing  clamor  of  voices  that  surged  around  the  dwelling.  In  that 
moment,  the  slaveholder,  believing  that  his  hour  had  come, 
stood  crouching  and  ahunch,  stupefied  with  terror,  his  hands 
clasped,  his  dead  eyes  staring  on  the  visage  of  the  negro,  his 
hair  bedrenched  and  limp  around  his  livid,  sweat-bedabbled  face, 
his  dark  moustache  hanging  dank  above  his  fallen  jaw,  his 
breath  coming  and  going  in  short,  thick  gasps,  and  his  whole 
frame  shaken  like  an  aspen.  Muriel,  calm,  but  still  and  pallid 


310  HAEEINGTON. 

as  a  statue,  stood  gazing  on  him  with  a  white  sparkle  in  her 
ashen  eyes.  The  negro,  dilated  to  his  full  height,  like  a  man 
in  the  presence  of  a  wild  beast,  glared  upon  him  for  an  instant 
with  a  look  of  frightful  ferocity,  and  then  his  expression 
changing  to  contemptuous  pity,  he  burst  into  a  short,  scornful 
guffaw. 

"  You  damned  soul-driving  tyrant,"  he  bellowed  at  him,  "  I 
could  split  your  heart  with  this  knife  if  you  wasn't  too  mis' ably 
mean  for  me  to  look  at." 

And  with  this  address,  and  another  short,  scornful  guffaw, 
he  turned  away,  snorting  with  contempt,  and  sheathed  his 
bowie-knife  under  his  waistcoat. 

Muriel  started  from  her  stillness,  and  with  something  of  her 
usual  frank  and  cordial  air,  advanced  and  held  out  her  hand 
to  him.  The  negro,  suddenly  disturbed,  as  though  just  con 
scious  of  her  presence,  took  the  offered  hand,  half  ashamedly, 
and  bowed  low. 

"Excuse  my  language,  Miss  Eastman,"  he  said,  "but  I 
kind  o'  forgot  you  were  in  here.  Now,  Mr.  Harrington,"  he 
said,  hurriedly  turning  from  her  with  a  look  of  trouble,  "  I 
don't  know  how  we'll  get  this  curse  out  of  here.  I'm  afeard 
the  folks  '11  fly  at  him  when  they  see  him.  The  women  folks 
'11  be  the  worst  to  manage.  Hold  on  there  !"  he  shouted, 
going  to  the  door,  which  was  straining  with  the  outside  pres 
sure,  and  resounding  with  kicks  and  blows,  "  I'll  be  out  in  a 
minute.  The  women  folks,  you  see,"  he  resumed,  "they'll 
have  red  pepper  to  throw,  just  as  like  as  not.  It'll  be  skit 
tish  business,  I  tell  you." 

Harrington  lifted  Roux,  who  was  recovering  from  his 
swoon,  from  the  floor,  carried  him  into  the  other  room,  laid 
him  on  the  bed,  and  returned. 

"  Listen,  Brown,"  he  said,  quickly.  "  It's  a  hard  matter, 
but  you  must  use  all  your  influence  to  keep  the  people  still. 
Unless  you  can  persuade  them  to  disperse,  there's  only  one 
thing  to  be  done.  You  and  I  must  take  him  between  us, 
and  go  through  the  crowd." 

Lafitte  seemed  to  catch  what  was  going  on,  and  abjectly 
slinking  near  Harrington,  gasped  out  that  he  had  a  carriage 


HARRINGTON.  311 

waiting  for  him  round  the  corner,  if  they  could  only  get  him 
to  that.  Harrington  instantly  communicated  this  informa 
tion  to  Brown. 

"  Mr.  Brown,"  said  Muriel,  "  suppose  you  let  in  twenty  or 
thirty  of  the  men  outside  for  a  body-guard.  Then  we  can 
take  him  in  the  centre.  How  will  that  do  ?" 

"  That's  a  good  idea,*'  replied  Brown.  "  Mr.  Harrington, 
come  and  help  me  to  stand  the  rush." 

He  moved  to  the  door  accompanied  by  Harrington. 

"  Hallo,  there  1"  roared  Brown.  "  Stand  back.  I'm  going 
to  open  the  door." 

There  was  a  sudden  retrograde  rush,  with  a  swarming 
clamor  of  voices,  and  sliding  back  the  bolt,  Brown  flung  the 
door  open,  and  with  Harrington  by  his  side,  sprang  upon  the 
threshold. 

"  Back,  now  !"  he  shouted.  "  See  here,  I  want  some  of 
you  in  here.  Come  in  as  I  call  you.  The  rest  wait." 

With  his  eye  roving  over  the  crowd,  he  called  about  thirty 
names  in  succession,  the  men  passing  in  between  him  and 
Harrington,  as  they  were  summoned.  Toward  the  end  of  the 
roll-call,  Tugmutton  appeared,  and  darted  into  the  room 
between  the  legs  of  Harrington,  who  tried  to  stop  him. 

"  Now,  then,  gentlemen,"  said  Brown,  in  his  grandiose  way, 
addressing  the  gaping  crowd  of  negroes  and  mulattoes  outside, 
"  you  wait  there,  and  we'll  be  out  soon." 

With  that,  he  and  Harrington  withdrew,  bolting  the  door 
again.  The  first  thing  Harrington  saw,  was  the  infuriated 
Tugmutton  lightly  prancing  around  the  wincing  and  crouching 
slaveholder,  and  punching  and  Jbutting  him  without  mercy,  and 
in  perfect  silence.  Nothing  could  have  more  completely  indi 
cated  Lafitte's  utter  prostration  of  spirit  than  his  submission 
to  the  pummelling  he  was  receiving.  Muriel  was  in  the  inner 
room,  bending  over  Roux,  and  the  body  of  negroes,  all  grin 
ning,  were  the  only  witnesses,  besides  Harrington  and  Brown, 
of  this  extraordinary  transaction. 

"  Hallo  there,  Charles  !"  cried  Harrington,  "  stop  that !" 

Tugmutton,  who  had  just  lifted  his  short,  knurly  leg  for  a  kick, 
which  would  have  been  like  the  kick  of  a  SEetland  pony,  let 


312  HARRINGTON. 

his  foot  fall,  and  stood,  his  broad  limbs  all  dispread,  and  his 
blobber-cheeks  puffed  out  with  rage  under  his  shocks  of  wool. 
Harrington's  eye  was  on  him,  or  he  would  have  given  the 
enemy  of  his  race  a  parting  thump  of  one  sort  or  another ; 
but  as  it  was,  he  slunk  off  in  the  sulks  to  the  adjoining 
room. 

"  See  here,  gentlemen/'  said  Brown,  addressing  the  motley 
group  of  negroes,  who  now  stood  fierce  and  open-mouthed, 
rolling  their  eyes  upon  the  slaveholder,  "  I've  got  something 
to  say  to  you.  There's  a  lady  here,  and  what  you've  got  to 
do  is  to  behave  like  gentlemen." 

There  was  instantly  great  confusion  of  elaborate  ducking 
and  bowing  to  the  lady,  Muriel  having  come  from  the  inner 
room  as  Brown  spoke.  She  acknowledged  their  grotesque 
and  extravagant  politeness  by  smiling  and  curtseying,  which 
set  them  all  going  again  with  the  added  grace  of  much  good- 
natured  grinning,  and  some  spruce  strutting  on  the  part  of  the 
younger  men,  especially  the  mulattoes.  One  could  not  help 
noticing,  as  part  of  the  general  effect,  the  contrast  between 
this  facile  affability  and  anxious  desire  to  please,  and  the 
uncouth  and  outlandish  figures  of  these  courtiers,  every  one 
of  whom  had  something  singular  and  nondescript  about  his 
apparel  or  bearing. 

"  Now  gentlemen,"  pursued  Brown,  after  an  embarrassed 
pause,  in  which  he  kept  moving  his  hand  over  his  mouth  as 
one  in  doubt  what  to  say  next,  "  the  reason  I've  asked  you  in 
here  is  because  I've  most  especial  confidence  in  you.  Fact  is, 
gentlemen,  we  shall  all  get  into  trouble  and  have  the  police 
down  on  us,  unless  we  get  that  jnan  there  off  safe.  That's  got 
to  be  done,  gentlemen,  and  you've  got  to  do  it.  What  you've 
got  to  do,  gentlemen,  is  to  form  in  a  hollow  square,  and  put 
him  in  the  middle  of  you,  and  walk  him  off  handsome,  to  a 
carriage  round  the  corner." 

They  all  stood  staring  open-mouthed  with  eyes  revolving 
wildly  at  the  speaker.  Lafitte,  coming  to  his  senses  again, 
was  in  an  agony  of  apprehension,  while  both  Muriel  and  Har 
rington  stood  with  throbbing  hearts. 

"  Deacon  Massey,"  said  Brown  with  some  pomposity  of 


HARRINGTON.  313 

manner,  "  what's  your  opinion  as  to  whether  this  thing  can  be 
done  ?" 

Deacon  Massey,  an  elderly  colored  man  of  pragmatical  as 
pect,  with  two  bunches  of  white  wool  protruding  from  under  an 
old  cap  which  he  wore  on  the  back  of  his  head,  and  with  a 
general  flavor  of  antiquity  in  his  shabby  garments,  instantly 
assumed  an  air  of  the  profoundest  deliberation. 

"It  my  'pinion,  Brother  Brown,"  he  said,  with  a  very 
important  air,  after  a  long  pause,  "  that  this  thing  can  be  done 
if  these  yer  brethren  '11  put  their  trust  hi  the  Lord  and  stick 
together." 

There  was  an  instant  burst  of  declarations  from  the  entire 
group  that  they  would  trust  the  Lord  and  stick  together,  and 
do  the  thing  in  first  rate  style. 

"  All  right,  gentlemen,"  said  Brown.     "  Now  form." 

Amidst  much  bustle,  Harrington  directing,  and  Brown 
hustling  them  into  place,  a  hollow  square  was  formed  in  the 
centre  of  the  room. 

"  I  will  take  Mr.  Lafitte  by  one  arm,"  said  Muriel,  "  and 
you  Mr.  Brown,  will  take  the  other.  Mr.  Harrington  will 
follow  behind." 

Harrington  looked  grave.  "  You  run  great  danger, 
Muriel  ?"  he  murmured.  "  I  think  yoji'd  better  stay  here." 

"  No,"  whispered  Muriel,  "  with  a  woman  on  his  arm,  his 
risk  will  be  lessened.  We  must  omit  nothing  that  will  protect 
him.  Don't  fear  for  me.  I'm  not  afraid." 

"  Miss  Eastman,"  said  Brown,  approaching  with  a  bow, 
"  you're  the  bravest  lady  I've  ever  seen  by  long  odds.  You 
can't  be  beat,  Miss  Eastman." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Brown,"  she  said  with  a  curtsey,  almost 
gay.  "  Now,  sir,"  she  added  gravely,  turning  to  the  shudder 
ing  Lafitte,  "  collect  yourself,  keep  your  head  down,  and  don't 
look  around  you." 

She  picked  his  hat  up  from  the  floor,  and  put  it  on  him. 
He  tried  to  bow  with  something  of  his  usual  courtesy,  but  was 
too  much  agitated  to  do  so.  Taking  him  firmly  by  the  left 
arm,  she  led  him  into  the  centre  of  the  square,  which  closed 

H 


314  HAEEINGTON. 

around  them  with  locked  arms.  The  awful  moment  was  ap 
proaching. 

"  Now,  gentlemen,"  said  Brown,  firmly,  "  mind  you  stick 
together.  Don't  march  till  I  give  the  word." 

He  went  to  the  door  and  unbolting  it,  threw  it  open. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  roared,  in  a  tremendous  voice*  "  this  affair 
is  settled.  We're  going  to  escort  this  man  away  from  the 
neighborhood.  Fall  back,  all  of  you,  and  clear  the  way." 

He  advanced  upon  them  with  waving  arms. 

There  was  an  instant's  hesitation,  and  then,  with  a  sudden 
movement,  they  receded  tumultuously,  and  poured  down  the 
wooden  steps  amidst  a  chorus  of  shouts  and  cries,  which  was 
taken  up  below,  and  swelled  into  a  ponderous  uproar. 

Returning  hastily  to  the  room,  Brown  entered  the  hollow 
square,  and  grasped  Lafitte'  by  the  right  arm.  Harrington 
followed  him  and  took  his  place  behind,  and  the  square  closed. 

"  Forward,  march !" 

As  the  words  burst  from  the  mouth  of  the  negro,  they 
marched  from  the  room,  only  breaking  their  order  to  get 
through  the  doorways.  The  moment  they  appeared  on  the 
steps,  the  whole  wild,  tossing,  sunlit  multitude  sent  up  an  ap 
palling  and  tremendous  howling  roar.  Lafitte  almost  fainted, 
but  encouraged  by  Mqriel,  he  rallied,  and  keeping  his  head 
on  his  breast,  without  looking  at  the  crowd,  he  was  got  down 
the  steps,  and  the  next  instant  the  little  phalanx,  joining  to 
gether  with  locked  arms,  plunged  into  the  living  sea,  which 
closed  around  them  amidst  an  awful  din. 

They  turned  up  the  sidewalk,  stepping  quickly,  with  the 
mob  parting  before  them,  and  following  on  their  left  flank  and 
behind  them,  and  the  tossing  and  roaring  multitude  in  the 
middle  of  the  street  crowding  them  hard,  and  at  times  driving 
them  to  the  wall  of  houses  on  their  left.  Amidst  the  uproari 
ous  clamor,  Brown's  voice  pealed  incessantly,  calling  on  those 
before  him  to  clear  the  way,  and  to  those  on  his  left  to  stand 
back.  As  Muriel  had  foreseen,  her  presence  was  an  invaluable 
aid,  for  at  the  sight  of  the  beautiful,  calm  lady,  the  foremost 
of  the  flanking  multitude  would  crowd  back  upon  those  behind 
them,  and  driven  forward  again,  would  again  crowd  and  strug- 


H  AEKINGTON.  315 

gle  backward.  Soon,  too,  the  imitative  faculty  had  its  way, 
and  the  phalanx  deepened  by  the  accession  of  other  negroes  who 
locked  arms  with  it,  till  it  filled  the  sidewalk  to  the  kerb-stone, 
which  in  turn  opposed  a  slight  barrier  to  the  dense  press  of  the 
multitude.  But  the  passage  through  the  stifling  crush  was 
still  arduous,  and  the  heat  and  foul  odors  made  it  more  so. 
Awful,  too,  were  the  howls  and  cries  and  imprecations  which 
greeted  every  glimpse  of  the  Southerner.  At  that  moment, 
Lafitte  would  have  willingly  given  everything  he  was  worth  in 
the  world  to  be  out  of  the  danger  which  menaced  him. 

The  height  of  the  ordeal  was  when  they  reached  Grove 
street,  where  they  had  to  cross  to  the  carriage,  with  the  mul 
titude  on  each  side  of  them.  It  was  but  a  short  distance,  but 
the  phalanx,  struggling  and  swaying  in  the  dense  and  roaring 
press,  had  to  literally  tear  its  way  through.  There  was  already 
hustling  and  pushing,  with  angry  words  flying,  and  Harring 
ton  saw  that  presently  it  would  come  to  blows,  when  all  would 
be  lost.  Bending  forward,  he  shouted  in  Brown's  ear  to  take 
the  lead  and  endeavor  to  clear  the  way.  The  negro  instantly 
dropped  Lafitte's  arm,  which  Harrington  seized,  and  gaining 
the  van  of  the  phalanx,  he  burst  upon  the  crowd  with  all  the 
strength  of  his  body  and  the  thunder  of  his  voice.  They 
surged  back  for  an  instant,  leaving  a  clear  space  in  front. 

"  Quick  step  !  forward  !"  pealed  the  trumpet  tones  of  Har 
rington. 

The  phalanx  made  a  desperate  rush,  Brown  flying  in  the  van, 
and  in  an  instant  the  carriage  was  gained.  Quick  as  thought 
Lafitte  was  forced  into  it,  and  Harrington  and  Muriel  sprang 
in  beside  him.  The  crowd  poured  around  with  a  clamor  of 
shouts  and  cries,  and  while  the  horses,  with  the  frightened 
driver  at  their  heads,  reared  and  plunged,  the  carriage  itself, 
seized  by  the  crowd,  began  to  sway  as  if  it  would  be  over 
thrown.  Lafitte  fainted  dead  away. 

"  Quick  !"  vociferated  Brown  to  the  driver.  "  Mount  the 
box,  and  drive  like  mad  !"• 

The  driver  scrambled  to  his  seat,  and  lashed  the  horses, 
while  the  negro  sprang  inside.  Away  they  rattled  at  a  furious 
pace,  with  the  howling  multitude  surging  along  on  either  side 


316  HARRINGTON. 

and  behind  them.  Muriel  and  Harrington,  flushed  and  bathed 
with  perspiration,  sat,  with  disordered  dresses,  holding  up  the 
inanimate  form  of  the  slaveholder,  while  Brown,  in  a  reek  of 
sweat,  busied  himself  with  beating  off  the  hands  that  clutched 
momently  at  the  carriage  door.  Along  Grove  street  into 
May,  and  from  thence  up  West  Centre  into  Myrtle,  the  fright 
ened  horses  tore  like  a  whirlwind  ;  but  before  they  reached 
Myrtle,  the  clamor  was  receding,  and  the  crowd  had  thinned 
and  fallen  behind,  unable  to  keep  up  with  them,  but  still  fol 
lowing  in  the  distance. 

"  We're  safe  I"  cried  Harrington,  joyfully. 

"  Faith,  yes,"  returned  Muriel,  gaily,  her  golden  eyes  glow 
ing  in  the  faint  pink  flush  of  her  face,  "  but  it  was  warm  work 
while  it  lasted." 


CHAPTER    XX. 

EXPLANATIONS. 

FOR  a  few  moments  they  all  were  silent. 

"  Mr.  Brown,"  said  Muriel,  breaking  the  pause,  "  we  owe 
you  the  most  cordial  thanks.  You  have  saved  this  man's 
life." 

"  I'm  afeard,  Miss  Eastman,  that  his  life's  not  worth  sav 
ing,"  returned  the  negro,  in  an  exhausted  voice,  wiping  away, 
with  his  shirt-sleeve,  as  he  spoke,  the  streaming  moisture 
which  shone  on  his  swart  visage.  "  He's  in  a  fit,  aint  he,  Mr. 
Harrington  ?"  he  added,  glancing  at  the  slaveholder,  who 
sat,  flaccid  and  inanimate,  between  the  young  man  and 
Muriel. 

"No,  he  has  only  fainted,"  replied  Harrington.  "We 
must  revive  him." 

He  removed  the  Southerner's  hat,  took  off  his  neckcloth, 
and  opened  his  shirt,  to  give  him  air,  while  Muriel  busied  her 
self  with  fanning  him,  using  his  hat  for  that  purpose.  She 
had  dropped  her  fan  and  parasol  on  the  steps  at  the  time 


HARRINGTON.  317 

when  Tugmutton  had  screamed  to  them  what  was  going  on  in 
Roux's  room. 

"  I  should  just  like  to  know  the  rights  of  this  matter,  Mr. 
Harrington,"  said  Brown,  "  for  I've  got  no  clar  understand^ 
of  it,  any  way.  The  fust  thing  I  knew,  I  heerd  a  hollerin'  in  the 
street,  and  I  caught  a  sight  of  that  boy  of  Roux's  tearin'  like 
mad  from  house  to  house,  bawlin'  somethin'  or  other,  and  the 
folks  comrn'  out  and  runnin'  in  all  sorts  of  ways,  shoutin',  till  the 
street  filled  with  'em.  I  stood  a  minute,  and  then  I  run  down 
to  Tug.  '  Hullo,  you  young  devil,'  says  I,  '  what's  to  pay/ 
'  There's  a  kidnapper  luggin'  off  father,'  he  bawls,  and  off  he 
goes  like  a  shot,  hollerin'  that  into  the  houses,  and  dodgin' 
about  like  a  Ingy  rubber  ball.  I  sung  out,  '  come  on,  men,' 
and  I  put  for  Roux's,  knife  in  hand,  lickedy  split.  That's  all 
I  know." 

"Well,  I  hardly  know  more  myself,"  replied  Harrington. 
"  Miss  Eastman,  and  I  were  going  up  to  see  Roux.  We  met 
the  boy,  who  ran  up  the  steps  before  us,  and  as  we  were 
ascending,  he  came  flying  back  screaming  that  there  was  a 
kidnapper  in  there  carrying  off  his  father,  and  vanished  past 
us.  I  didn't  know  what  to  make  of  it,  but  I  rushed  up  and  in, 
and  sure  enough  there  was  this  person,  whom  I  had  seen  last 
night  at  the  Convention,  grasping  Roux's  arm,  and  leading  him 
to  the  door.  I  flew  at  him,  and  dashed  him  to  the  wall. 
Then  came  the  noise  in  tlie  street,  and  the  people  poured  into 
the  house." 

"  Who  is  this  man  anyway  ?"  said  the  negro. 

"  He  is  named  Lafitte,  and  he  was  formerly  Roux's  master," 
replied  Harrington. 

The  negro  threw  back  his  head,  and  laughed,  showing  his 
splendid  teeth  and  pink  gums. 

"  Well,  if  this  don't  beat  all  1"  he  exclaimed.  "  You  don't 
mean  to  tell  me  that  he  thought  he  could  carry  off  Roux  alone 
right  out  of  the  midst  of  us  ?  Why,  the  man's  crazy  1" 

"Well,  it  looks  insane  enough,"  said  Harrington,  "  and  what 
put  such  a  foolhardy  idea  into  his  head,  I  can't  imagine.  And 
yet,  Brown,  reckless  and  crazy  as  this  attempt  seems,  do  you 
know  that  I  think  it  would  have  been  successful  ?  You  should 


318  HAEEINGTON. 

have  seen  Roux.  The  man  was  perfectly  helpless  with  fright. 
He  looked  fascinated,  like  a  bird  in  the  jaws  of  a  snake.  I 
verily  believe  that  he  would  have  walked  without  the  slightest 
resistance  to  the  carriage,  and  have  been  taken  back  into 
slavery  without  our  ever  knowing  what  had  become  of  him." 

"  I  swear,"  cried  Brown,  "  I  didn't  think  Bill  Roux  was  such 
a  coward." 

"Coward?  I  don't  think  he  is,"  returned  Harrington. 
"  Just  think  of  the  awful  and  unexpected  shock  it  must  have 
been  to  suddenly  find  this  man  in  the  room  with  him  1" 

Lafitte,  at  this  moment,  showed  signs  of  returning  conscious 
ness,  and  the  conversation  ceased.  The  carriage,  having 
arrived  at  Mount  Vernon  street,  was  now  going  at  a  more 
moderate  pace,  the  crowd  having,  in  the  various  turns  it  had 
made,  lost  the  track  of  it.  If  it  had  been  going  on  a  straight 
road,  those  negroes  would  have  followed  it  till  they  dropped 
down. 

Shuddering,  as  he  returned  to  life,  the  ghastly  Southerner, 
so  unlike  the  smiling  and  sardonic  gentleman  of  an  hour  before, 
looked  around  him,  and  his  glance  falling  upon  Brown,  he 
cowered. 

"  You  are  in  safety,  sir,". said  Muriel,  gently. 

He  smiled,  or  tried  to  smile,  sicklily,  and  his  lips  moved  in 
the  endeavor  to  speak,  but  no  sound  came  from  them. 

"  Where  shall  we  take  you,  Mr.  Lafitte  ?"  said  Harrington, 
after  a  pause. 

After  two  or  three  ineffectual  efforts,  Lafitte  contrived  to 
whisper  that  he  was  stopping  at  the  Tremont  House.  Har 
rington  gave  the  order  to  the  driver,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
they  arrived  at  the  hotel.  By  that  time  Lafitte  had  recovered, 
and  Harrington  assisted  him  to  button  up  his  shirt  and  vest, 
resume  his  neckcloth,  and  get  himself  into  something  like  decent 
trim. 

Leaning  on  Harrington's  arm,  he  got  from  the  carriage,  and 
stood,  weak  and  ghastly,  on  the  sidewalk.  The  flurried  driver, 
pointing  to  his  horses,  which  stood  reeking,  and  covered  with 
froth  and  pasty  foam,  remarked  that  "  if  them  animals  ain't 
blown,  it's  nobody's  fault — that's  all."  Mr.  Lafitte  gave  him  a 


HARRINGTON.  319 

handful  of  gold  and  silver,  and  appeased,  he  retired  with 
profuse  thanks. 

"  And  now,  look  here,"  said  Brown,  fronting  the  slave 
holder.  "  I  don't  want  to  say  nothin'  ugly  to  a  man  in  your 
state,  but  I'll  give  you  my  advice.  You've  had  a  taste  of 
Southac  street  to-day,  and  if  you  ain't  dead,  it's  just  because 
this  gentleman  begged  your  life  of  me.  You  just  leave  this 
city  now  as  quick  as  convenient,  for  if  any  of  our  folks  fall 
afoul  of  you,  you'll  get  knifed  as  sure  as  you're  born.  That's 
my  advice  to  you.  Just  you  follow  it,  and  bear  in  mind  that 
you  can't  carry  on  here  as  you  do  way  down  in  Louzeana." 

"  That  is  good  advice,  Mr.  Lafitte,"  said  Harrington,  "  and 
Mr.  Brown  here  means  well  by  you  in  giving  it.  After  what 
has  passed,  you  must  not  remain  in  Boston." 

Harrington  spoke  with  ominous  earnestness,  and  Mr.  Lafitte 
was  evidently  impressed  by  him.  He  stood,  looking  weak  and 
sick,  while  these  remarks  were  made  to  him,  with  his  eyes  cast 
down. 

"  I'll  go,"  he  faltered,  "  I  certainly  will.  I  am  indebted  to 
you,  Mr.  Harrington,  for  your  protection — much  indebted,  sir. 
And  to  this  lady  also." 

"  You  are  far  more  indebted  to  Mr.  Brown,"  said  Muriel. 
"  Without  his  friendly  aid,  we  could  have  done  nothing  for  you." 

Mr.  Lafitte  was  silent.  Even  in  his  humiliation,  his  rank 
and  insolent  Southern  arrogance  would  not  suffer  him  to  make 
any  acknowledgments  to  a  negro,  though  it  was  a  negro  who 
had  preserved  him. 

"  Mr.  Harrington,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  "  I  drew  my  knife 
on  you  to-day,  and  you  made  a  generous  return  for  the  injury 
I  tried  to  do  you.  Indeed,  sir,  I  am  aware  that  you  saved  my 
life." 

Harrington's  blue  eyes  flashed  fire,  and  his  nostrils  lifted. 

"  Listen  to  me,  sir,"  he  said,  with  stern  solemnity.  "  The 
life  you  live  is  not  human.  Nothing  is  human  that  forgets  the 
kindness  man  owes  to  man.  To-day  I  have  helped  to  save 
you,  for  I  do  not  hate  you,  and  I  wish  you  no  harm  ;  but  un 
derstand  that  a  life  like  yours  has  small  claims  on  my  heart,  and 
I  call  it  love  and  mercy  to  kill  you  when  you  attack  the  weak 


320  HARRINGTON. 

and  poor.  Go  now  from  this  city,  and  never  come  here  again 
to  lay  your  hand  on  one  man  in  it.  I  do  not  seek  yonr  life  ; 
I  would  guard  it  if  I  could  ;  but  while  I  am  tender  of  you 
personally,  I  bid  you  remember  that  the  issues'between  tyrants 
and  freemen  are  the  broad  issues  of  life  and  death.  Once  I  have 
saved  you — twice  I  will  not.  Go  in  peace — but  come  here 
again  on  such  an  errand,  and  I  will  slay  you  with  my  own 
ham},  for,  by  the  Eternal  God,  never  while  I  live,  shall  you 
nor  any  one  make  Boston  a  hunting-ground  for  men  1" 

Lafitte,  with  his  ghastly  visage  bowed,  shook  like  a  leaf 
while  Harrington,  with  a  white  face  and  flaming  eyes,  and 
with  stern  determination  in  every  tone,  uttered  an  admonition 
which  rose  to  the  dignity  of  the  great  issue  between  Liberty 
and  Slavery. 

"  I  regret  to  say  this  to  you  in  your  present  condition/' 
said  the  young  man,  after  a  pause,  "  but  it  is  necessary  that 
you  should  hear  it,  and  understand  it  well.  Now  I  will  help 
you  in." 

Leaving  Muriel  on  the  sidewalk  for  a  minute,  he  gravely 
assisted  Lafitte  up  the  steps  of  the  hotel,  and  left  him. 

"  Now,  dear  fellow-soldier,"  he  said,  returning,  "  we  must 
go  back  and  carry  off  Roux." 

"  Decidedly,  yes,"  replied  Muriel,  taking  his  arm,  "for  when 
the  wolf  gets  well,  he  may  have  a  hankering  for  the  lamb. 
Come  with  us,  Mr.  Brown." 

They  took  another  carriage  which  was  standing  there,  and 
drove  back  to  Southac  street. 

It  may  be  said  here,  that  Harrington  had  left  Antony, 
eoundly  sleeping,  in  the  care  of  Captain  Fisher,  who  sat  with 
the  door  bolted,  and  the  pistol  by  him,  keeping  watch  and 
ward,  while  the  young  man  fulfilled  his  appointment  with 
Muriel.  Arriving  an  hour  earlier  than  that  assigned,  Har- 
ington  had  astonished  her  and  her  mother  with  the  wild  tale 
of  his  nocturnal  adventure.  That  the  brother  of  Roux  should 
have  arrived  in  Boston  at  this  juncture,  and  that  the  young 
man,  of  all  persons  on  earth,  should  have  come  upon  him, 
were  coincidences  almost  too  marvellous  for  conception,  and 
the  two  ladies  dwelt  upon  them  with  speechless  wonder. 


HARRINGTON.  321 

Not  less  marvellous  to  Harrington  and  Muriel,  was  their 
fortunate  arrival  at  Roux's  house  in  the  critical  moment  of  his 
dreadful  peril.  Three  minutes  later,  and  the  negro  would  have 
been  a  lost  man. 

Reaching  Southac  street  again,  they  found  Roux  weak  and 
haggard  with  the  terrible  shock  he  had  received.  He  was 
sitting  in  a  chair  near  the  stove  as  they  entered.  Tugmutton 
was  frying  potatoes  in  a  spider,  accompanying  his  operations 
with  sage  reflections  on  the  recent  incident,  mingled  with 
lofty  reproofs  to  Roux  for  not  having  "  squashed  in,"  as  he 
phrased  it,  the  head  of  the  slaveholder,  together  with  pompous 
comments  on  his  own  promptness  and  courage  in  having  first 
roused  the  neighborhood,  and  then  assaulted  the  kidnapper. 
On  this  last  feat,  the  fat  squab  dwelt  proudly,  as  the  crown  of 
the  whole  transaction,  and  Roux  meekly  listening,  with  great 
admiration,  looked  upon  Tugmutton  as  more  than  ever  a 
superior  being. 

Tugmutton,  a  little  apprehensive  lest  Harrington  should 
not  take  the  same  view  of  the  crowning  feat,  fried  the 
potatoes  in  discreet  silence,  while  he  and  Muriel  questioned 
Roux.  It  appeared  that  Roux's  wife  and  the  children  had 
been  invited  to  remain  a  week  in  Cambridge,  at  the  house  of 
the  brother-in-law,  who  was  a  well-to-do  colored  man,  Roux 
himself  having  come  into  town,  with  Tugmutton,  to  attend  to 
his  business.  It  was  at  once  decided  that  Roux  should  take 
up  his  abode  for  the  present  at  Temple  street,  and  that  Har 
rington  should  write  to  his  family,  stating  where  he  was,  and 
the  reason  for  this  step.  Tugmutton,  who  was  to  keep  his 
father  company,  was  to  be  dispatched  with  the  letter. 

This  settled,  the  fire  was  slaked,  and  locking  the  door  be 
hind  them,  they  all  descended  to  the  carriage.  Tugmutton, 
having  objected  to  so  speedy  a  departure,  on  the  ground  that 
the  fried  potatoes  would  be  sacrificed,  which  he  regarded  as  a 
serious  breach  of  the  domestic  economy  of  the  establishment, 
had  been  prevailed  upon  to  compromise  the  matter  by  bestow 
ing  those  edibles,  together  with  the  remnant  of  the  meat  and 
whatever  bread  there  was  in  the  house,  on  big  Ophelia  and 
her  elvish  husband  in  the  room  opposite.  "  You  know; 


322  HARRINGTON. 

Charles,"  Muriel  had  gaily  observed  to  him,  "  that  these  are 
the  days  of  the  Compromise  Measures,  and  you  must  be  in 
fashion."  Touched  by  this  appeal  to  his  statesmanship,  the 
fat  Puck  had  made  the  donation  with  the  air  of  one  giving 
away  a  million  of  money,  and  the  donation  having  been  gra 
ciously  received,  he  had,  by  way  of  prudence,  loftily  added  a 
bouncing  fib,  to  the  effect  that  he  and  Roux  were  going  out 
to  stay  some  time  at  his  uncle's  country-seat  in  Cambridge. 

Two  or  three  policemen  had  arrived  in  Southac  street,  just 
after  the  exit  of  the  Southerner.  They  had  prudently  ab 
stained  from  interfering  with  the  excited  crowd  ;  but  the  crowd 
had  dispersed,  and  few  of  their  number  remained  in  the  street 
as  the  carriage  came  for  Roux  and  drove  away  again. 

Arrived  at  Temple  street,  Roux  was  installed  in  an  upper 
chamber  ;  books  and  pictures  were  left  him  to  while  away  his 
days  of  imprisonment,  and  Harrington  and  Muriel  withdrew  to 
the  library,  to  consult  with  Mrs.  Eastman  as  to  what  was  to 
be  done  with  Antony. 

It  was  finally  decided  that  the  news  of  his  brother's  arrival 
should  be  broken  to  Roux  the  next  morning,  and  then,  that 
Antony,  too,  should  be  conveyed  to  the  house  and  shut  up  with 
Roux.  It  was  also  resolved  that  all  of  them  should  take  up 
their  future  abiding  place  in  Worcester,  as  soon  as  it  should  be 
judged  safe  to  remove  them  ;  for,  with  such  a  man  as  Lafitte 
alive,  they  could  no  more  go  at  large  in  safety  in  Boston,  at 
that  period,  than  Italian  patriots  could  in  Naples,  among  the 
sbirri  of  Bomba. 

The  council  over,  Mrs.  Eastman  retired  to  send  up  some 
dinner  to  Roux,  and  Harrington,  meanwhile,  dashed  off  the 
letter  for  Tugmutton  to  carry  to  Cambridge. 

"  Good  I"  said  Muriel,  reading  what  he  had  written.  Har 
rington  rose. 

"  I  must  leave  you,"  said  he,  taking  up  his  hat. 

"  Oh,  but  stay  and  dine  with  us,"  she  pleaded. 

"  Indeed,  I  can't,"  he  replied.  "  I  must  go  and  relieve  the 
Captain,  who  is  watching  over  Antony,  and  wondering  what 
has  become  of  me." 

"  True,"  she  answered.     "  And  I  must  go  make  my  toilette, 


HAEEINGTOST.  323 

for  I  am  in  a  state.  But,  John,  when  shall  I  see  you  again  ? 
You  know  we  have  this  matter  of  Emily  and  Wentworth  to 
look  into." 

"  I  declare  I  forgot  it.  This  business  quite  drove  it  from 
my  mind,"  exclaimed  Harrington,  quickly.  "  What  have  you 
heard  ?" 

"  Not  a  word,"  she  answered.  "  Emily  appeared  at  break 
fast  with  the  story  of  a  sleepless  night  in  her  poor  lack-lustre 
eyes.  I  said  nothing,  for  I  had  no  chance,  and  since  then  she 
has  kept  herself  locked  up  in  her  chamber.  There  is  some 
thing  passing  strange  in  this.  Have  you  seen  Wentworth  ?" 

"  No,  Muriel.  It  is  the  first  day  I  have  not  seen  him  for  I 
know  not  how  long.  I  should  have  gone  in  search  of  him  to 
get  at  the  bottom  of  this  matter,  but  for  my  strange  adven 
ture  last  night.  And  Emily — I  declare  I  must  see  Emily,  for 
I  have  something  to  say  to  her." 

"  About  this,  John  ?" 

"  No."     Harrington  colored.     "  About  something  else." 

Muriel  smiled  faintly,  thinking  this  the  desire  of  a  lover's 
heart. 

"  Well,  John,"  she  said,  "  let  me  tell  her  you  are  here." 

Harrington  hesitated,  thinking  whether  .he  ought  to  keep 
the  Captain  on  duty  longer.  On  the  other  hand,  he  felt  the 
need  of  an  immediate  understanding  with  Emily.  With  this 
mingled  a  sense  of  how  painful  and  embarrassing  an  interview 
it  would  be.  Would  this  time  be  well  chosen  for  it,  when 
Emily  was  already  in  sorrow  ?  No.  He  concluded  that  he 
must  wait. 

Muriel,  while  he  deliberated,  had  moved  slowly  to  the  door, 
awaiting  his  decision,  and  seeing  that  he  seemed  unable  to 
make  up  his  mind,  resolved  to  decide  for  him. 

"  I'll  call  her,"  she  said,  vanishing  from  the  room,  just  as 
Harrington  had  made  his  conclusion. 

Harrington  sprang  forward  to  stop  her,  stumbled  over  a 
stool,  and  nearly  fell,  and  when  he  reached  the  entry  Muriel 
was  not  to  be  seen. 

"  Good  !"  he  muttered,  with  some  chagrin.  "  It  seems  the 
Fates  have  decided  that  the  explanation  is  to  ensue  now." 


324:  HARRINGTON. 

He  threw  down  his  hat,  and  tried  to  think  what  he  should 
say.  As  usual  in  such  cases  he  could  think  of  nothing. 

"  A  pretty  plight  I'm  in  to  see  anybody,"  he  muttered, 
glancing  at  his  dust-covered  garments,  and  conscious  that  a 
bath  would  improve  him. 

Suddenly,  long  before  he  had  expected  her,  the  door  opened, 
and  Emily,  pale  as  marble,  with  her  eyes  swollen  with  weep 
ing,  came  into  the  library  with  a  movement  so  unlike  in  its 
rapidity,  her  usual  sumptuous  and  slow  stateliness,  that  Har 
rington  was  startled.  She  came  straight  up  to  him  with  out 
stretched  hands,  her  lips  parted,  the  tears  flowing  from  her 
eyes,  and  so  agonized  and  desperate  a  look  on  her  face,  that 
it  shocked  him. 

"  John,"  she  gasped,  seizing  his  hands  convulsively,  "  hear 
me  !  Muriel  told  me  you  wanted  to  see  me,  but  it  is  I  that 
want  to  see  you — to  talk  with  you — to  ask  your  compassion 
and  forgiveness." 

"  Emily  ! — what  ! — forgiveness  ! — my  forgiveness  !" 

She  broke  in  upon  his  stammered  words,  wildly,  almost 
fiercely. 

"  Hush  ?  do  not  speak  !  Let  me  speak,"  she  cried.  "  Let 
me  atone  for  my  baseness  to  you  by  my  self-degradation — my 
confession — my  repentance  "— 

"  Emily — Emily — silence  !"  cried  Harrington,  shocked  be 
yond  expression  I  "I  cannot  hear  you  speak  of  yourself  so. 
Baseness  ?  In  you  ?  Never  !  All  the  world  would  not 
make  me  believe  it — you  yourself" 

"  John  !  hear  me  !  hear  me  !"  she  wailed,  her  face  agonized, 
and  the  wild  tears  streaming— "  hear  me,  I  implore  you  !  I 
have  deceived  you.  I  have  beguiled  you.  I  have  misled  you 
— I  have  made  you  think  I  love  you  " 

"  No,  Emily,  you  have  not.  You  have  won  my  affection, 
but  it  is  the  affection  of  a  brother  who  will  be  a  brother  to  you 
forever.  You  have  made  me  think  you  love  me,  but  with  the 
love  of  a  friend  and  sister.  No  more." 

She  dropped  his  hands,  and  receding  a  pace,  looked  at  him 
with  a  hushed  face,  on  which  the  tears  lay  wet,  but  ceased  to 
flow.  The  solemn  and  fond  avowal  sank  like  dew  on  th( 


HAKEINGTON.  325 

burning  passion  of  her  brain.  For  a  full  minute  she  looked 
at  him. 

"  Harrington  !"  she  said  slowly,  in  a  deep  still  voice  from  which 
the  tremor  had  gone.  "Is  it  possible  !  Can  this  be  so  I 
My  whole  attitude  to  you — my  court  to  you — my  words,  my 
looks,  my  actions — all  that  misled  others — that  made  them  think 
I  loved  you — that  deceived  them  utterly." 

"  They  never  deceived  me,  Emily.  I  looked  upon  them 
only  as  the  tokens  of  your  friendship,  of  your  sisterly  regard. 
No  more." 

She  gazed  at  him  in  wondering  awe.  Suddenly  a  wild  light 
broke  upon  her  face,  and  she  clasped  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  man  without  vanity  !"  she  passionately  cried,  "sim 
ple,  honorable  heart — nature  unspotted  by  the  world,  and 
knowing  nothing  base — how  am  I  worthy  to  live  hi  your 
presence  1  The  arts  that  would  have  flattered  the  self-love 
of  the  moths  that  flutter  round  me,  were  powerless  on  you, 
and  untempted,  undated,  unsuspecting,  you  took  my  treacherous 
homage  as  only  the  token  of  the  love  of  a  sister  and  a 
friend  !" 

The  words  trembled  away  in  a  rapture  of  fervor.  Ceasing, 
her  head  sank  upon  her  bosom,  and  her  face  was  wet  with  a 
solemn  rain  of.  tears.  Moved  beyond  speech,  and  sadly  un 
derstanding  all,  Harrington  stood  with  his  flushed  face  mute,  a 
sweet  thrill  melting  through  his  frame,  and  his  eyes  were  dim. 

"  It  is  over,"  she  sorrowfully  faltered.  "  The  worst  is  over. 
There  is  more  to  be  said — much  more,  but  I  cannot  say  it 
now.  Not  now — not  now." 

She  stood  in  deep  dejection,  her  head  bowed,  her  hands 
clasped  and  drooping,  and  her  eyelids  almost  closed. 

"  I  am  very  humble,"  she  slowly  murmured,  in  a  voice  like 
the  dropping  of  tears.  "  I  stand  in  the  Yalley  of  Humiliation, 
and  the  Yalley  of  the  Shadow,  lies  before  me.  Alone,  I  enter 
it — forsaken — alone ." 

He  heard  the  words,  mournful  as  the  sound  of  a  funeral  bell, 
and  he  strove  to  speak,  but  could  not  shape  his  lips  to 
language  that  did  not  seem  to  profane  the  sanctity  of  her 
sorrow.  Silently  he  held  out  his  arms  to  her. 


HARRINGTON. 

"  0  my  brother  !"  She  glided  near,  and  (aid  her  head  upon 
his  breast,  and  her  voice  was  weak  and  lew.  "  Let  me  rest 
here  a  little.  Do  not  speak  to  me.  I  am  very  weary.  Let  mo 
rest  here  a  little  while — let  me  dream  of  my  childhood — of 
the  old  sweet  days  that  are  gone — a  little  while  before  I  go." 

He  had  put  his  arms  silently  and  tenderly  around  her,  and 
she  leaned  upon  his  breast  with  closed  eyes,  pale  and  still. 
No  sound  broke  the  hush.  A  sad  peace  filled  the  air,  and  the 
slow  minutes  ebbed  away. 

"  Where  am  I  ?"  she  raised  her  head  slightly,  then  let  it 
sink  again  upon  his  bosom.  "I  am  here — still  here.  I  was 
gliding  away — away.  It  was  very  comforting  and  sweet.  I 
am  better  now.  I  think  I  must  have  slept  a  little.  I  feel  so 
refreshed  and  light.  Thank  you,  my  brother,  for  this  rest  and 
strength.  Now  I  must  go.  Kiss  me,  Harrington." 

She  turned  her  pale  mouth  up  to  his  as  she  whispered  the 
words.  Yaguely  surprised  at  the  strangeness  of  her  request, 
and  deeply  touched  by  its  dreamful  and  childlike  innocence,  he 
bent  his  head  and  kissed  her.  Her  lips  were  not  fevered,  but 
cool  and  dewy,  like  the  lips  of  a  child.  Wondering  at  this, 
he  was  about  to  unclasp  his  arms  to  release  her,  when  her 
eyes  closed  and  her  head  sank  again  upon  his  breast.  Hold 
ing  her  so,  with  his  gaze  turned  far  away  to  the  blue  sky  be 
yond  the  windows  of  the  room,  he  heard  her  breathe  gently, 
and  looking  at  her  face,  he  saw  that  a  light  dew  had  started 
out  upon  it,  and  that  she  was  asleep.  He  knew  at  once  that 
this  strange  sleep  was  magnetic,  and  that  its  blessed  rain  of 
healing  would  fall  deep  and  long  on  the  arid  trouble  of  her  brain. 
Grateful  that  so  sweet  an  influence  had  been  shed  upon  her 
through  him,  he  held  her  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  gently 
lifting  her  in  his  arms,  he  laid  her  on  a  couch.  The  sumptuous 
pride  and  passion  of  her  womanhood  seemed  to  have  fallen 
from  her,  and  pale,  with  her  long  dark  eyelash  sleeping  on 
her  cheek,  she  lay  in  thrilling  and  exquisite  marble  beauty, 
slumbering  with  the  restful  innocence  of  childhood. 

He  was  about  to  ring  and  ask  for  Mrs.  Eastman;  then  re 
flecting  that  she  might  be  in  the  parlor,  he  chose  rather  to  go 
down  to  her  on  his  way  out  from  the  house,  but  stepping  on 


HARRINGTON.  327 

tiptoe  to  the  door  for  this  purpose,  he  saw  Muriel  clad  in  a 
white  wrapper,  just  ascending  to  her  chamber,  and  beckoned 
to  her.  She  came  instantly,  all  lily-fair  from  her  bath,  with 
her  bright  hair  rippling  back  from  a  face  serious  with  inquiry, 
and  gazed  with  some  astonishment  on  the  reposing  form  of 
Emily.  Briefly  explaining  to  her  in  a  whisper  the  nature  of 
the  sleep  in  which  Emily  lay,  and  advising  that  she  should  be 
covered,  and  left  there  to  slumber  undisturbed,  Harrington 
softly  quitted  the  room,  promising  to  return  as  soon  as  he 
could,  and  tell  Muriel  more. 

"  But  John,"  murmured  Muriel,  in  the  corridor,  "  do  give 
me  a  little  information  about  this  before  you  go.  You  say 
she  fell  asleep  leaning  on  your  breast,  and  that  nature  was 
overcome  with  suffering.  What  was  her  trouble  ?  Surely 
what  Wentworth  said  to  her  could  not  have  affected  her  so 
terribly." 

"  Muriel,"  said  Harrington,  gently,  after  a  pause,  "  this  is 
a  secret,  but  it  is  one,  I  think,  you  ought  to  know.  Briefly, 
then — Emily  imagined  that  she  had  won  my  heart  from  me, 
and  was  stricken  with  generous  grief  to  think  that  she  had  no 
love  but  a  sister's  to  give  me  in  return.  It  was  easy  to  rectify 
her  painful  error,  and  I  have  done  so." 

Muriel  stood  gazing  at  him,  as  if  she  had  turned  to 
stone.  ** 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Harrington,  after  an  awkward  pause. 

She  slowly  bent  her  head  in  reply,  and  stood  motionless, 
with  her  lips  parted  in  wonder,  as  he  went  down-stairs  and 
out  at  the  front  door. 

"  Yes,"  he  murmured,  as  he  strode  off  down  the  street, 
"  and  she  loves  Wentworth.  That  is  her  heartbreak — that  is 
why  she  paid  her  desperate  and  reckless  court  to  me.  Ohf 
Muriel,  I  would  not  have  you  know  it  for  the  world  1" 


328  HABKINGTON. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE    BREAKING    OF   THE    SPELL. 

RECALLED  to  herself  by  the  shutting  of  the  street  door, 
Muriel  started  from  her  trance,  and  flew  upstairs  into  her 
chamber.  Falling  on  her  knees  by  her  bedside,  she  covered 
her  eyes  with  her  hands,  and  buried  her  face  in  the  coverlet, 
floods  of  dazzling  light  pouring  upon  her  brain. 

"I  see  it  all !"  she  cried,  springing  to  her  feet,  and  throw 
ing  up  her  hands,  her  face  radiant,  and  a  smile  breaking  upon 
it  like  March  splendors  from  the  wild  clouds;  ''I  see  it  all 
now  !  Wentworth  and  she  are  lovers.  Oh,  let  me  not  die 
with  joy  P 

Her  luminous  face  upturned,  her  arms  upthrown,  she  flew 
across  the  room,  stopped  suddenly,  and  covering,  her  eyes  with 
her  hands,  stood  still,  light,  perfume,  and  victory  rushing  upon 
her  soul  and  mantling  through  her  veins. 

"  Yes,  I  see  it  all  !"  she  cried,  flinging  her  hands  from  her 
eyes,  and  clasping  them  before  her,  "they  love — they  love. 
It  is  a  lover's  quarrel.  To  vex  Wentworth,  she  paid  court  to 
Harrington.  It  was  on  Richard's  account  that  she  was  jea 
lous  of  me.  And  that  is  why  Richard  was  so  devoted  to  me 
— yes,  to  vex  her.  And  I  who  patronized  him,  that  she  and 
Harrington  might  be  together — ah,  that  made  Harrington 
think  I  loved  Richard.  I  see  it — I  see  it !  That  is  what  he 
meant  when  he  asked  me  to  tell  him  who  my  fairy  prince  was  ! 
Oh,  noble  heart,  you  hid  your  pain — you  sacrificed  your  love 
— you  tried  to  be  happy  in  the  happiness  you  dreamed  for 
me  !  And  I,  who  made  you  suffer — I,  who  could  be  so 
misled,  as  to  think,  even  for  an  instant,  that  you  loved  another 
—Oh,  blind,  blind  1" 

Her  eyes  swam,  and  her  beautiful  head  drooping  like  a 


HAERINGTON.  329 

flower,  she  stood  motionless,  her  fallen  hands  clasped  before 
her,  thinking,  thinking,  thinking  of  it  all.  Swiftly,  as  in  the 
fairy  tale  at  the  touch  of  the  prince's  wand  the  tangled  floss 
unravelled,  and  all  the  colors  lay  assorted,  so  in  her  musing 
the  whole  tangle  of  misapprehension  and  illusion  unwound  and 
fell  into  orderly  and  candid  form. 

"  Ah,  Richard,  you  scamp  1"  she  gaily  soliloquized,  half  to 
herself  and  half  aloud,  "  you  shall  make  amends  for  this  1 
But  you,  too,  must  have  suffered.  Now  what  could  have 
made  them  quarrel  ?  Let's  consider.  What  have  I  ever  seen 
Richard  do  to  Emily  ?  Nothing  but  look  cold,  and  glum,  and 
piqued.  All  that  was  clearly  in  response  to  her  manner. 
Then  that  ugly  speech  he  made — but  that  was  the  finale. 
Stand  aside,  Richard,  my  friend.  Now,  Emily.  What  have 
I  seen  Emily  do  to  Richard  ?  Let  me  see.  Why  nothing 
either  for  a  commencement  of  the  trouble.  My  observations 
began  in  the  middle  of  it  all.  Stay — there  was  that  little 
affair  of  the  violets  for  a  sample.  But  that  was  in  the  middle, 
too.  And  that  was  due  to  our  sweet  friend  Fernando.  Oho  1" 
she  cried,  opening  her  eyes  with  a  comical  air,  "  I  have  an 
idea  1  Wait,  wait,  now,  my  little  idea,  till  I  put  a  pin  in  you  ! 
Let's  see.  With  one  subtle  speech,  one  artful  tone,  one  deli 
cate  lift  of  those  expressive  eyebrows,  one  curious  non 
significant,  all-significant,  any  thing-significant  look,  this  clever 
Witherlee  contrives  to  put  it  into  my  simple  Emily's  head  to 
slight  and  wound  her  lover.  That  was  a  delicious  proceeding, 
and  I  saw  it  in  all  its  indescribable  beauty.  That  was  a 
sample  of  Fernando's  method.  That  was  one  of  his  fine 
touches.  Still  that  is  but  one.  But  suppose  he  has  been 
playing  this  sort  of  game  with  Emily  from  the  first  ?  So 
gently,  so  delicately,  so  skillfully  poisoning  her  mind  against 
Wentworth.  Her  intimate  friend — so  close*  with  her,  so  con 
fidential — ah,  ha  !  my  daughter  of  Eve,  has  the  serpent  been 
at  your  ear,  too  !  Oh,  my  poor  Eveling,  has  he  been  putting 
you  up  to  this  mischief?  Good!  I'll  engage  that  we  shall 
find  Witherlee  at  the  bottom  of  the  whole  imbroglio  when  all 
is  known." 

And  Muriel,  ineffably  delighted  at  her  own  sagacity,  her 


330  HARRINGTON. 

nimble  mind  having  glanced  from  point  to  point  to  this  con 
clusion,  threw  back  her  charming  head,  and  gave  way  to  a 
rivulet  of  low,  delicious  laughter. 

"  Shame  on  me  to  laugh  about  it,"  she  resumed,  looking 
very  grave.  "  It  has  cost  too  much  suffering  to  laugh  about. 
And  yet,"  she  ran  on,  rippling  again  into  golden  laughter,  "  I 
can't  help  it.  I'm  so  happy  !  And  it  is  such  a  pleasure  to 
have  found  the  track  of  the  fox  that  stole  the  grapes  !  Well, 
Fernando  I  you're  a  nice  young  man !  And  oh,  Cupid, 
Cupid,  you  weren^t  painted  with  the  bandaged  eyes  for  nothing, 
you  rogue  !  But,  bless  me,  here  am  I  chattering  to  myself, 
and  Emily  to  be  covered,  dinner  nearly  ready,  and  I  not 
dressed." 

She  broke  off  to  hasten  to  a  bureau,  from  a  lower  drawer 
of  which  she  took  a  grey  silk  coverlet  to  lay  over  Emily,  and 
went  swiftly  from  the  room. 

Emily  was  sleeping  deeply,  with  a  faint  color  in  her  pallid 
and  lovely  face.  Bending  over  her,  Muriel  covered  her  with 
the  quilt,  and  kissing  her  forehead  softly  as  a  spirit,  darkened 
the  room,  and  left  her.  Then  going  down  to  her  mother,  and 
warning  her  not  to  disturb  the  sleeper,  she  hurried  up  to  her 
chamber,  and  finished  dressing  herself  just  as  Bridget,  a  comely 
little  Irish  girl  who  waited  at  table  when  they  dined  alone, 
came  up  to  summon  her  to  dinner. 

Charmingly  attired  in  a  robe  of  black  silk,  with  an  open 
corsage  of  snowy  lace,  and  looking  more  radiantly  fair  than 
ever,  Muriel  came  down  to  dinner,  and  during  the  meal  enter 
tained  her  mother  with  a  circumstantial  account  of  her  noon 
adventure.  The  story,  of  course,  made  a  sensation,  as  the 
popular  phrase  goes  ;  but  as  far  as  Muriel  was  concerned, 
Mrs.  Eastman  listened  without  shuddering  or  chiding.  She  had 
such  perfect  confidence  in  her  daughter's  ability  to  take  care  of 
herself,  and  such  a  conviction  that  everything  she  did  befitted 
her — for,  like  Shakspeare's  Cleopatra,  Muriel  shed  the  artistic 
grace  of  her  nature  on  all  her  actions,  and  compelled  them  to 
become  her  ornaments — that  she  heard  the  part  she  had  played 
in  the  wild  scene  not  only  without  discomposure,  but  with  con 
siderable  pride  and  admiration,  thinking  at  the  same  time  how 


HARRINGTON.  331 

« 

proud  Mr.  Eastman  would  have  been  of  the  way  his  child  had 
borne  herself.  As  he  would,  for  his  wishes  for  Muriel  were 
well  expressed  in  the  noble  lines  of  Ben  Jonson,  of  which  he 
was  very  fond  : 

"I  meant  the  day-star  should  not  brighter  ride, 

Nor  shed  like  influence  from  his  lucent  seat :  . 

I  meant  she  should  be  courteous,  facile,  sweet, 

Free  from  that  solemn  vice  of  greatness,  pride  ! 
I  meant  each  softest  virtue  there  should  meet,  i 

Fit  in  that  softer  bosom  to  abide  : 
Only  a  learned  and  a  manly  soul 

I  purposed  her,  that  should  with  even  powers 
The  rock,  the  spindle,  and  the  shears  control 

Of  Destiny;  and  spin  her  own  free  hours. 

A  piquant  incident  occurred  while  they  yet  lingered  at  des 
sert.  The  chief  result,  perhaps,  of  Muriel's  narration,  was  to 
lend  an  added  blazon,  in  Mrs.  Eastman's  mind,  to  the  charac 
ter  of  Harrington  j  and,  by  the  way,  she  still  firmly  believed 
— his  declaration  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding — that  her 
daughter  loved  him. 

"  I  often  think,"  she  observed,  during  the  conversation, 
"  how  superior  John  is  to  all  other  men  I  know.  The  other 
day  I  met  him  in  the  street,  and  my  first  impression  was  of 
his  superiority  in  contrast  to  those  around  him." 

"  Yes,  that  strikes  one  certainly,"  returned  Muriel,  with  a 
nonchalant  air. 

"  Ah,  there  is  none  like  him,  none  I"  said  Mrs.  Eastman. 
"  I  wish  I  had  the  rewarding  of  him." 

Muriel  laughed. 

"  Virtue  is  its  own  reward  you  know,  mamma,"  she  said, 
playfully.  "  But  what  other  reward  would  you  give  him  ?" 

"  You  1"  quickly  said  Mrs.  Eastman,  smiling  and  coloring. 

Muriel  looked  at  her  with  a  twinkling  mouth  and  a  demure 
face. 

"  You  do  not  mean  to  say,  mamma,"  she  replied,  "  that  you 
would  choose  Harrington  from  the  crowd  of  my  adorers  for  my 
husband." 

"Indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Eastman,  with  some  warmth,   "if  I 


332  HARRINGTON. 

had  the  choosing,  Harrington  should  be  your  husband  to-mor 
row." 

Muriel  now  looked  at  her  with  an  indescribable  air  of 
bewitching  gaiety.  % 

"  To-morrow,  mamma  ?     So  soon  ?"  she  said,  jestingly. 

Mrs.  Eastman  looked  confused,  like  one  who  has  been 
betrayed  into  saying  a  foolish  thing,  and  blushing  deeply,  began 
to  laugh. 

"  Well,"  she  replied,  with  an  air  of  raillery,  "  the  day  after 
to-morrow." 

"  The  day  after  to-morrow,"  repeated  Muriel,  her  counte 
nance  beaming  with  gracious  fun.  "  Well,  my  dear  mamma, 
I  will  reflect  upon  it,  and  if  I  decide  to  oblige  you  by 
marrying  Harrington  the  day  after  to-morrow,  I  will  let  you 
know." 

Mrs.  Eastman  laughed  at  this  pleasantry,  and  thinking  Mu 
riel  was  evading  the  subject,  said  no  more,  but  rose  from  the 
dinner-table  with  her.  Their  relation  as  mother  and  daughter 
also  involved,  as  is  not  always  the  case,  the  relation  of  courte 
ous  friendship,  and  this  was  the  nearest  approach  Mrs.  East 
man  had  ever  made  to  penetrate  within  the  veil  of  any  reser 
vation  of  Muriel's. 

Immediately  after  dinner,  Muriel  wrote  a  note  to  Went- 
worth,  bidding  him  come  to  the  house  instantly.  This  she 
dispatched  by  Patrick,  bidding  him  find  the  young  artist,  if 
possible,  and  give  it  into  his  own  hand  ;  and  Patrick,  who 
would  have  gone  through  fire  and  flood  for  his  young  mistress, 
promised  to  find  Went  worth  if  he  was  to  be  found,  and  started 
oif  on  his  errand. 

It  was  about  four  o'clock  when  Went  worth  arrived.  He 
was  shown  up  into  the  studio,  where  Muriel  was  waiting  for 
him.  Pale  and  wan,  and  grave  even  to  coldness,  he  was  the 
handsome  and  gallant  Went  worth  still ;  a  man  to  be  loved  at 
first  sight  by  women  and  by  men,  even  now,  when  a  storm  had 
blown  upon  his  May. 

He  bowed  coldly  and  constrainedly  to  Muriel  as  he  entered, 
though  he  was  struck  by  her  exceeding  beauty  as  she  glided 
forward  with  her  natural  aifable  smile  and  curtsey  to  greet 


333 

him.  But  Wentworth  was  sick  of  all  the  world  at  that  mo 
ment,  and  affecting  not  to  see  Muriel's  outstretched  hand,  he 
looked  aside  and  reached  her  a  chair. 

"  What  is  it  you  wished  to  see  me  for,  Muriel  ?"  he  said, 
half  coldly,  half  carelessly,  drawing  up  another  chair  for  himself. 

"  Richard  ?"  Her  voice  carried  a  soft  rebuke,  though  it 
was  gentle  and  low.  "  Not  glad  to  see  me,  your  friend,  your 
sister,  Richard." 

He  kept  his  gaze  fixed  upon  the  floor,  but  his  lip  quivered, 
and  the  faded  colors  of  the  carpet  suddenly  swam.  The  next 
instant  he  felt  her  arms  around  him,  and  blind  with  tears,  he 
let  his  forehead  sink  upon  her  shoulder. 

"  Forgive  me,  Muriel,"  he  faltered,  in  a  moment,  lifting  his 
face  to  hers,  and  wanly  smiling  through  his.  tears.  "  Indeed 
I  love  you,  but  my  heart  is  half  broken,  and  I  am  weary  of 
the  world." 

"  Ah,  Richard,"  she  said,  with  tender  gaiety,  "  there  is  a 
fairy  prince  here  who  mends  broken  hearts,  and  makes  the 
world-weary  glad  again." 

Her  arms  fell  from  him,  and  as  they  fell,  he  caught  her 
hand  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 

"  Your  magic  is  strong,  dear  fairy  prince,"  he  said,  with 
sad  playfulness,  "  but  there  are  spells  no  magic  can  unbind. 
Come — let  us  speak  of  other  things." 

"  Good  1"  said  Muriel,  sinking  into  the  chair,  while  Went 
worth  also  seated  himself — "  and  since  we  must  speak  of  other 
things,  let  us  speak  of  Witherlee." 

Wentworth  reddened  instantly. 

"  And  he  is  a  thing  I"  was  his  scornful  answer.  "  I  abhor 
him." 

"  Abhor  the  good  Fernando  1"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  jesting 
face.  "  Why  Richard,  I  am  astonished  at  you  !  Abhor  so 
talented  a  young  gentleman  1" 

"  Talented  !"  scoffed  Wentworth.  "  What  has  he  a  talent 
for?" 

"  A  talent  for  poisoning,  dear  skeptic,"  she  replied,  lightly. 
"  A  splendid  talent  for  poisoning.  No  poisoner  of  the  Middle 
Ages  was  ever  mor.e  skillful." 


334:  HAKRINGTON. 

Wentworth  looked  confused. 

"  Poisoning  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?"  he  murmured. 

"  Only  those  old  poisoners  wrought  on  life,"  she  pursued, 
"while  he,  you  know,  works  on  character,  minds,  hearts. 
They  could  add  a  deadly  perfume  to  a  harmless  rose.  He, 
now,  can  do  the  same  with  an  innocent  bunch  of  violets." 

Wentworth  looked  at  her  silently,  with  a  strange  feeling 
rising  within  him. 

"  Confess,  Richard,"  she  went  on,  "that  you  scented  some 
thing  deadly  to  your  love  after  he  had  dropped  a  word  over 
those  violets  1"  . 

"  I  understand  you/'  he  replied,  slowly,  "  he  said  something 
which  prevented  Emily  from  giving  me  the  violets." 

"  And  that  wounded  you  sorely,"  she  remarked. 

"  I  confess  it  did,"  he  answered.  "  It  was  a  very  trifling 
thing,  to  be  sure,  but  at  that  time  it  meant  a  great  deal,  and 
to  be  frank  with  you,  Muriel,  I  was  hurt.  No  matter,"  he 
added,  "  there  were  other  things  for  which  he  was  not  responsi 
ble,  which  hurt  me  far  more.  I  cannot  now  be  hurt  again." 

"But  consider,"  said  Muriel,  quietly.  "If  that  morning 
Emily  had  given  you  the  flowers,  the  gift  would  have  gone  far 
to  reconcile  you  to  her.  Would  it  not  ?" 

"  It  would,"  cried  Wentworth,  vehemently.  "  One  little  act 
of  kindness  from  her  to  me  at  that  time,  would  have  made  me 
forget  all  her  former  slights,  and  try  to  win  her  to  me  again. 
But,  Muriel,  why  dwell  on  this  ?  It  was  her  intention  to  trifle 
with  me  from  the  first.  Come,  I  must  not  talk  of  her.  Let  it 
all  go.  It  amounts  to  nothing." 

"  It  amounts  to  just  this,"  she  replied,  coolly.  "  That  Mr. 
Witherlee  was  interested  in  your  affairs  to  the  extent  of  making 
fresh  dissension  between  you  and  Emily,  and  that  he  widened 
a  breach  already  made.  Now  do  you  imagine  his  interest 
extended  no  further  than  that  moment  ?  But,  Richard,  tell 
me  frankly,  how  did  your  difference  with  Emily  arise  I" 

"  Muriel,"  he  replied  solemnly,  "  as  Heaven  is  my  witness,  .1 
do  not  know.  I  never  did  anything  to  cause  it.  I  left  her 
here  one  afternoon,  and  I  was  happy,  for  though  I  thought  she 
loved  me  before,  I  was  never  sure  of  it  till  then,  when  we  met  in 


HAEEINGTON.  S3  5 

the  first  embrace,  the  first  kiss,  and  the  last,  she  ever  gave  me. 
Witherlee  appeared  at  the  parlor  door,  and  retreated  again  for 
a  minute  or  so.  Then  you  came  into  the  parlor  from  the  con 
servatory,  and  he  entered  at  the  same  moment.  You  will 
recollect  that  afternoon — you  brought  in  a  bunch  of  flowers, 
and  as  he  came  in  you  held  out  the  bouquet  to  him,  which  he 
took  from  your  hand.  Do  you  remember  ?" 

Muriel  nodded. 

*  Well,"  continued  Wentworth,  "  I  felt  a  little  abashed  at 
Witherlee's  entrance,  for  I  thought  he  had  seen  us,  and  in  fact, 
it  was  so  awkward  for  me,  that  I  took  my  leave  in  a  few 
minutes." 

"  And  that  evening — I  remember  it  well  " — interrupted 
Muriel,  "  he  and  Emily  talked  together  in  a  corner  the  whole 
time,  while  mother  and  I  were  busy  with  a  roomful  of  guests." 

"  Did  they  1"  said  Wentworth,  coldly,  seeing  nothing  in  the 
circumstance  worthy  of  notice.  "  Well,  Muriel,"  he  continued, 
after  a  moment's  consideration,  "  I  called  the  next  morning  to 
see  Emily,  happy  as  I  could  be,  and  full  of  love  for  her,  and 
she  met  me  with  such  chilling  hauteur  that  I  was  frozen.  It 
was  like  an  ice-bath.  I  felt  piqued  and  hurt,  and  though  I 
thought  it  only  a  passing  freak,  I  could  not  help  being  cool  to 
her.  Indeed,  her  manner  prevented  anything  but  coolness.  I 
thought,  however,  it  would  pass  over.  But  the  next  day  it 
was  the  same,  and  the  next  and  the  next.  I  am  proud,  Muriel, 
and  I  was  innocent  of  any  fault.  Could  I  do  less,  and  keep 
my  self-respect,  than  remain  cool  to  a  lady  who  was  treating 
me  so  ?  Meanwhile,  I  saw  her  attentions  to  Harrington,  and 
I  made  up  my  mind  that  she  had  trifled  with  me  for  her  amuse 
ment.  So  it  went  on,  till  last  night  when  she  heaped  con 
tumely  on  me,  and  I  repaid  her  with  the  speech  you  heard. 
There.  I  did  not  mean  to  speak  of  this,  but  you  have  led  me- 
on.  Now  I  am  quits  with  her." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  Wentworth 
resumed  : 

"  In  all  this,  Muriel,  I  did,  as  far  as  she  was  concerned,  only 
one  wrong  thing.  When  I  saw  her  wooing  Harrington,  to 
show  her  that  I  could  bear  her  injury,  and  to  spoil  her 


336  HARRINGTON. 

triumph,  I  was  very  attentive  to  you.  I  knew  you  would  not 
mistake  my  assiduities  for  love,  and  I  knew  it  would  pique  her. 
I  ask  your  pardon.  It  was  wrong.  I  did  another  and  a 
greater  wrong  to  Harrington,  and  I  have  sought  him  in  vain 
to-day,  to  beg  his  forgiveness.  I  thought  he  loved  Emily,  and 
I  was  meanly  envious  and  jealous  of  him — I  was  cold  and 
reserved  to  him — I  treated  him  with  hauteur,  which  I  saw 
he  could  not  understand,  and  " 

"  How  did  Harrington  act  to  you  when  you  treated  him 
with  hauteur  ?"  interrupted  Muriel,  quickly. 

"  Like  the  man  he  is  !"  replied  Wentworth,  with  impetuous 
fervor.  "  Like  the  nature  too  noble  for  this  world  !  Great, 
grand  heart,  he  shamed  me  even  in  my  very  treason  to  him 
with  his  unaltered-  kindness.  He  came  to  me  frankly,  unre- 
pelled  by  my  attitude  to  him,  he  came  with  a  look,  a  word,  a 
generous  hand,  and  he  conquered  me.  My  envy  and  my 
jealousy  arose  again,  and  were  wasted  on  him.  I  could  not 
alienate  him  from  me.  He  overlooked — he  forgave  all.  Let 
me  only  see  him  again,  let  me  ask  his  compassion  and  his  par 
don,  and  then  let  me  go  away,  and  hide  my  shame  in  Italy, 
for  I  am  not  worthy  to  live  on  the  same  soil  with  him — I  am 
not  worthy  to  be  his  friend.'7 

Two  bright  tears  flowed  calmly  down  the  face  of  Muriel, 
and  her  smile  was  sweet  and  proud  for  her  lover. 

"  Ah,  Richard,"  she  said,  gently,  "  had  you  treated  Emily's 
hauteur  as  Harrington  treated  yours,  you,  too,  might  have 
conquered  her.  It  was  not  true  love  to  answer  her  slights 
with  coldness  and  silence." 

"  Perhaps,  so,  Muriel,"  he  answered  with  averted  eyes,  feel 
ing  her  rebuke.  "  Perhaps  I  might.  But  jio.  It  was  not  her 
nature.  She  meant  to  play  upon  me.  No  matter.  Let  it 
pass.  And  as  for  Witherlee,  I  hate  him.  Chiefly  because  I 
believe  his  insidious  words  set  me  against  Harrington." 

"  Ah,"  said  Muriel,  coolly,  almost  carelessly,  "he  set  you 
against  Harrington,  did  he  ?" 

"  He  did,"  replied  Wentworth. 

"  And  yet  you  loved  Harrington,"  she  continued,  "  you  loved 
Mm  truly.  But  Witherlee  could  set  you  against  him." 


HARRINGTON.  337 

"  He  could,"  faltered  Wentworth.  "  I  own  it  to  my  shame, 
but  he  could." 

"And  now,  Richard,"  she  said,  gravely,  "answer  me  this. 
Would  Emily  be  more  to  blame  for  having  been  set  against 
you  by  Witherlee,  than  you  were  to  blame  for  having  been 
set  against  Harrington  by  him  ?" 

Wentworth  looked  at  her,  and  colored. 

"  No,"  he  faltered.  "  I  could  not  blame  her  if  her  feeling 
against  me  arose  from  anything  said  by  Witherlee.  But  what 
right  have  I  to  suppose  that  he  has  said  anything  against 
me  ?" 

"  Richard  Wentworth,"  she  cried,  starting  from  her  chair, 
and  her  face  lit,  and  her  voice  rang  clear  and  free,  "  never 
dare  to  condemn  Emily  till  you  know  that  this  is  not  so. 
Never  condemn  any  person  on  any  evidence  till  you  have  given 
that  person  a  hearing.  Here  is  a  man  who  goes  about,  drop 
ping  the  hint,  the  innuendo,  the  shrug,  the  hum,  the  ha,  the 
meaning  look,  for  aught  I  know  the  downright  wicked  lie,  all 
the  poisons  4ised  by  calumny,  and  while  you  know  him  to  be 
on  terms  of  intimacy  with  Emily,  you  venture  to  suppose  that 
he  is  guiltless  of  having  poisoned  her  mind  against  you.  Per 
mit  me  to  say  that  you  venture  to  suppose  too  much.  I  would 
not  condemn  even  him  unheard,  but  what  we  know,  though  it 
is  not  enough  for  proof,  is  quite  enough  to  create  a  presump 
tion.  You  have  found  him  fomenting  strife  between  you  and 
Harrington;  you  know  him  to  have  widened  the  breach  be 
tween  you  and  Emily.  These  things  show  him  no  friend  of 
yours.  And  between  the  evening  of  your  happy  parting  with 
Emily  and  the  morning  of  coldness  and  alienation,  he  spent 
several  hours  conversing  with  her.  Ominous  link,  Richard  ! 
Find  out  what  it  means.  Do  not  assume  that  she  meant  to 
trifle  with  you.  I  know  better.  I  know  Emily  Ames  better 
than  you  do,  and  I  -know  that  a  woman  more  honorable  and 
loyal  in  her  love  never  breathed.  Go,  Richard  Wentworth  I 
imitate  the  magnanimity  of  Harrington  and  never  let  me  have 
it  to  say  that  the  manliness  of  your  friend  was  more  than  that 
you  showed  to  the  woman  that  you  love  P 

Wentworth  rose  from  his  chair,  his  color  flashing  and  fail- 

15 


338  HARRINGTON. 

ing,  an  awful  sense  of  the  justice  of  Muriel's  speech  mingling 
with  an  awful  suspicion  of  Witherlee,  and  his  love  for  Emily 
rushing  like  a  torrent  on  his  heart. 

"  Muriel,"  he  faltered,  "  you  are  right.  I  have  been  rash. 
What  shall  I  do  ?  Oh,  if  after  all  I  have  wronged  Emily — if 
she  loves  me  " 

"  Richard,"  said  Muriel,  solemnly,  "  I  know  she  loves  you. 
I  have  been  blind  till  to-day,  but  now  I  see.  No  sleep  came 
to  your  poor  Emily's  eyes  last  night,  and  all  day  she  has  been 
in  agony.  A  little  while  ago,  Harrington  was  here,  and  he 
has  soothed  her  to  rest.  She  lies  now  asleep  in  the  library. 
Come  with  me,  and  I  will  leave  you  to  sit  by  her.  Her  wak 
ening  eyes  must  rest  first  on  you,  and  you  must  make  your 
peace  with  her.  But  you  must  not  awaken  her.  Promise  me 
you  will  sit  patiently  by  her  till  she  wakes — promise  !" 

Wentworth  pressed  Muriel's  hand  to  his  lips,  and  lifting  his 
blanched  face,  streaming  with  tears,  to  hers,  faltered — 

"  I  promise." 

"  Oh,  my  brother,"  she  fondly  said,  affectionately  encircling 
his  shoulder  with  her  arm,  "  all  will  be  well  with  you  now. 
Said  I  not  that  the  fairy  prince  dwelt  here  ?  Behold,  he  gives 
you  back  to  life  and  love  !  Come." 

Smiling  with  her  happy  and  noble  smile  into  his  face,  she 
led  him  forth  with  her  arm  in  his  and  downstairs  to  the 
library  door. 

"  Remember  your  promise,"  she  whispered.     "  Now  go  in." 

He  entered  softly,  softly  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and 
stood  in  the  dim  room  with  a  beating  heart.  For  a  moment, 
he  only  saw  the  books  in  their  cases,  the  sumptuous  furniture, 
the  glimmer  of  the  frames  upon  the  walls,  the  rich,  dark  color 
of  the  room.  Stealing  to  the  window,  he  parted  the  curtains 
to  let  in  a  little  light,  and  turning,  in  the  faint  ray  he  saw  on 
the  low  couch,  the  pale  face  of  his  beloved,  with  the  long  dark 
eyelash  sleeping  on  her  cheek,  and  her  black  hair  fallen  in  a 
thick,  soft  tress  along  the  exquisite  and  melancholy  beauty  of 
her  countenance.  Still,  peaceful,  void  of  scorn  or  pride,  lovely 
and  mournful  in  her  marble  repose  !  The  tears  streamed  from 
his  eyes,  and  gliding  near  her  he  knelt  by  her  side,  forgetting, 


HARRINGTON.  339 

forgiving  all,  and  resolved,  though  she  woke  upon  him  in  anger, 
with  hate,  with  contempt,  to  answer  her  only  with  blessings, 
and  love  her  till  his  pulses  were  still  forever. 

The.  hours  passed  by.  The  room  grew  dark,  and  going  to 
the  window,  he  put  aside  the  curtains,  and  let  in  the 
twilight.  That  twilight  was  yet  early,  for  the  sun  had  but 
just  set,  and  the  grey  light  again  lit  the  sleeping  face  of 
Emily.  As  he  watched  it,  he  saw  the  color  rise  to  it — 
the  sunny  gold  and  rose,  the  bright  carnation  of  the 
curved  lips,  behind  which  glimmered  the  dim  pearls.  With 
his  heart  wildly  throbbing,  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her 
countenance.  Presently,  a  faint  smile  stole  upon  it,  and 
she  murmured  softly — "  he  gave  me  that  rose."  A  thrill 
surged  through  him.  He  remembered  the  rose  he  had  given 
her  in  the  sunrise  of  their  love,  and  knew  that  she  was  dream 
ing  of  it  and  of  him.  Gazing  upon  her  face,  he  heard  her  faint 
regular  breathing  pause  in  a  long  respiration  like  a  sigh,  her 
form  moved  slightly  under  the  silken  coverlet,  and  tossing  out 
her  beautiful  bare  arms,  they  fell  along  her  form,  and  she  lay 
still.  The  next  moment,  her  large  and  lustrous  eyes  unclosed 
slowly,  and  met  his.  She  did  not  start,  but  the  eyes  gradually 
brightened,  and  the  color  rose  upon  her  face  and  lips  in  rich 
suffusion.  He  did  not  move — he  did  not  speak — he  knelt 
beside  her,  gazing  into  her  face,  with  his  heart  throbbing,  and 
a  still  flush  in  his  brain. 

"It  is  a  dream,"  she  murmured.     "  A  dream  of  my  love." 

He  did  not  speak,  but  his  arms  softly  stole  around  her,  and 
hers  enfolded  him  at  first  so  lightly  that  he  scarcely  felt  them. 
Lightly  and  softly  at  first,  till  suddenly  with  a  double  cry  they 
were  clasped  together,  and  the  disenchanted  Fairyland  of  love 
burst  and  streamed  in  music  and  light  and  odor  around  them. 

"  Richard  !  Is  it  you  ?" 

Holding  him  from  her,  with  all  her  strength,  her  face  impas 
sioned,  her  eyes  like  stars,  she  gazed  upon  him,  with  her  fervent 
cry  still  ringing  in  the  twilight  air. 

"  It  is  I.     Forgive  me,  Emily.     I  love  you." 

She  impetuously  drew  him  to  her,  and  locked  in  each  other's 
arms,  they  were  still. 


34:0  HARKINGTOtf. 

The  fairy  prince  had  triumphed,  and  Witherlee's  work  was 
quite  undone  1 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

INTERSTITIAL. 

THAT  evening,  visitor  after  visitor  called,  and  the  par 
lor  was  full  of  talk  and  music  and  laughter.  Amidst  her  com 
pany,  Muriel  felt  a  lonely  longing  for  the  face  of  Harrington. 
He  sometimes  dropped  in  late,  for  a  little  while,  and  this  even 
ing,  as  ten  o'clock  approached  and  the  guests  began  to  depart, 
she  half-hoped  he  would  come.  But  he  did  not,  and  tired  with 
her  last  night's  vigil,  as  with  the  fatigues  of  the  day,  she  went 
to  rest  as  soon  as  the  last  visitor  had  said  good  night . 

The  next  day  came  bright  and  beautiful,  and  Harrington 
not  appearing  as  he  commonly  did,  Muriel  went  out  to  take 
her  early  morning  walk  alone.  While  she  was  out,  he  arrived 
and  at  once  went  up  to  the  chamber  where  Roux-was  con 
fined. 

It  was  not  more  than  six  o'clock,  but  Roux  was  up  and 
dressed.  He  sat  in  a  chair,  and  Tugmutton,  squatted  on  a 
stool  by  his  side,  was  reading  aloud  to  him  from  Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin.  Tugmuttou's  reading  was  a  treat  to  hear.  It  was, 
when  the  text  was  at  all  serious,  what  is  called  at  the  theatres, 
spouting,  and  spouting  of  the  most  grandiloquent  order,  at 
that.  Accompanied,  also,  by  much  and  varied  action  of  his 
big  paw,  and  interspersed  not  only  with  explanations  and  com 
ments  of  his  own,  but  whenever  he  came  to  anything  that  par 
ticularly  pleased  him,  with  chirrups  and  guffaws  of  goblin 
laughter,  and  bobbings  and  waggings  of  his  big  head  and 
blobber  cheeks  over  the  page,  the  effect  was,  to  say  the  least 
of  it,  peculiar.  On  the  present  occasion,  the  fat  Puck  hap 
pened  to  have  arrived  at  a  chapter  highly  congenial  to  his 
special  views  on  the  Slavery  Question — to  wit  :  that  wherein 
George  Harris  and  his  fellow  runaways  fight  the  hunters  of 


HAKEINGTON.  341 

men  ;  and  Roux  was  at  some  trouble  to  detach  the  sense  of 
the  narrative  from  the  luxurious  overgrowth  of  dissertation, 
interpolation,  exclamation,  cachinnation,  and  general  outward 
limbs  and  flourishes  wherewith  Tugmutton  was  embellishing 
it.  Having  got  to  the  point  where  Phineas  topples  the  slave- 
hunter  down  the  rocks,  the  delighted  squab  leaned  back  and 
gave  vent  to  an  uproarious  guffaw,  and  in  the  midst  of  this, 
while  Roux,  with  a  faint  and  curious  smile  on  his  simple,  dark 
face,  was  listening,  Harrington's  knock  was  heard  at  the 
entrance. 

Tugmutton  instantly  grew  sober,  and  sat  staring  with  his 
great  white  eyes  at  the  door,  as  Roux  crossed  to  open  it. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Roux,"  said  Harrington,  entering,  and 
shaking  hands  with  him.  "  How  are  you  ?" 

"  Firs'rate,  thank  ye,  Mr.  Harrington,"  replied  the  smiling 
Roux,  bowing  humbly,  and  shutting  the  door  again. 

The  intuitive  Tugmutton,  instantly  gathering  from  Harring 
ton's  slightly  distraught  air,  that  something  was  the  matter, 
remained  perfectly  motionless,  squatting  on  his  low  stool  with 
the  book  in  his  hands,  and  staring  open-mouthed  at  him,  with 
a  look  of  preternatural  curiosity  on  his  fat  face. 

"  Sit  down,  Roux,"  said  Harrington,  dropping  into  a  chair 
without  noticing  the  boy,  and  gazing  absently  around  the 
room. 

Roux  resumed  his  chair,  and  with  his  hand  fumbling  over 
his  mouth  as  was  usual  with  him,  rolled  his  eyes  timidly  about 
the  room. 

"  Roux,  I've  got  news  to  tell  you,"  faltered  Harrington, 
smiling.  "  Good  news.  What  would  be  the  best  news  you 
could  hear  ?" 

Roux  smiled  faintly,  and  still  fumbling  around  his  mouth  with 
his  hand,  while  his  eyes  continued  to  wander,  he  appeared  to 
hesitate. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Harrington,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  I  ruther 
feel  oncertain  as  to  what  to  say.  It  would  be  the  most 
uncommonest  best  news,  if  I  heerd  that  my  brother  Ant'ny 
was  to  git  away.  But  I'm  afeard  that's  not  likely,  Mr. 
Harrington." 


342  HAKHINGTON. 

Roux's  eyes  kept  wandering,  and  Harrington  looking  hard 
at  the  opposite  wall,  smiled  furtively.  The  next  instant  both 
he  and  Roux  were  startled  by  a  sudden  screech  of  eldritch 
mirth,  and  by  the  apparition  of  Tugmutton  pitching  forward 
on  his  hands,  and  slapping  over  in  a  somerset  as  quick  as  light, 
coming  up  clean  on  his  feet  with  a  sober-staring  face,  and  a 
low  "  Hoo  !"  They  both  stared  at  him,  Harrington  with  a 
stir  in  his  blood,  for  he  had  not  seen  the  squab,  and  he  was 
completely  startled  by  his  appearance  in  this  astonishing 
gymnastic. 

"  Hi!"  exclaimed  Tugmutton,  standing  legs  dispread,  just  as 
he  had  landed  from  his  flip-flap,  and  pointing  at  Harrington 
with  his  thumb,  while  a  jovial  grin  slowly  spread  over  his  fat 
visage.  "  Hi  !  That  nigger  has  arroven  !  My  gosh  !  Mr. 
Harrington,  I  smell  a  rat  as  if  I  was  nothin'  but  nose  ! 
Hooraw  1  Three  cheers  !  Likewise  a  horse  larf  !  0  sing 
you  niggers,  sing  I"  and  chanting  this  line  in  a  shrill  voice, 
Tugmutton  stopped  to  fly  into  a  furious  double-shuffle  and 
breakdown,  with  his  shock  head  bobbing  like  mad. 

"  Hallo,  you,  Tug,  now,"  quavered  Roux,  looking  frightened. 
"  Just  you  ricollect  where  you  are  now,  Tug,  in  this  nice 
house.  What's  the  matter  with  you,  and  what  you  goin'  off 
in  that  way  for  now  ?  I  don't  see  what  you  mean  by  sech 
actions,  noways." 

Tugmutton  stopped  in  his  dance  at  the  sound  of  Roux's 
voice,  and  with  his  short  arms  akimbo  on  his  ribs,  and  his 
short,  broad  legs  dispread,  glared  up  at  him  with  a  look  of 
supreme  indignation. 

"My gosh,  father!"  he  exclaimed,  "if  you  ain't  stupid  now! 
Why  jus'  you  look  at  them  liniments  of  Mr.  Harrington  !" 
and  he  pointed  with  his  thumb  at  Harrington's  face,  which 
was  wrinkled  into  an  amused  smile.  "  Now,  what's  there 
father,  jus'  as  plain  as  print  ?" 

Tugmutton  ended  with  a  snort,  and  ineffably  disgusted  at 
Roux's  unintelligence,  dumped  down  on  his  stool,  and  looked 
at  Harrington.  Roux  meanwhile  gazed  at  the  young  man  with 
a  timid  and  imploring  expression. 

"  Charles  is  right,  Mr.  Roux,"  said  Harrington,  cheerfully, 


HARRINGTON.  343 

while  Tugmutton  relapsed  into  a  jovial  grin  of  satisfaction, 
showing  all  his  ivories,  and  wagging  his  bushy  head  delightedly. 
"  But  now,  Mr.  Roux,"  continued  Harrington,  "  I  want  you 
to  keep  cool.  The  good  news  is  that  your  brother  is  free. 
Don't  let  it  overcome  you.  Be  cool." 

"  I  will,  Mr.  Harrington,"  stammered  Roux,  terribly  agi 
tated,  "  I  will  be  cool.  I  won't  let  it  overcome  me." 

"  That's  right — don't,"  replied  Harrington,  with  an  affecta 
tion  of  phlegm.  "  By  the  way,  how  is  your  wife  ?  How  does 
she  bear  the  letter  I  sent  her  ?" 

"  Oh,  she's  pretty  well,  Mr.  Harrington,  and  she  says  she 
thinks  I'll  be  safe  here,"  said  Roux,  trembling  all  over. 
9      Harrington  led  him  on  to  talk  of  other  subjects,  diverting 
his  mind  as  much  as  possible  from  the  matter  in  hand,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  got  him  tranquil  again. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Roux,"  he  said,  "  Antony  is  free  as  I  told  you, 
and  I  want  you  to  prepare  yourself  to  see  him  soon." 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Harrington,  I  will,"  said  Roux  with  a  wondering 
face.  "  Did  Miss  Ames  buy  him,  Mr.  Harrington  ?" 

"  Oh  no,"  returned  Harrington,  "  how  could  she  when  it 
was  only  a  day  or  two  since  she  knew  of  him  ?  Antony  ran 
away.  I  have  him  at  my  house." 

Roux  sprang  to  his  feet,  wi!d  with  joy, 

"  Let  me  go  to  see  him,  Mr.  Harrington,"  he  cried. 

"No,"  said  Harrington,  rising  and  gently  pressing  Roux 
into  his  chair  again.  "  You  are  not  safe  out  of  this  room.  I 
will  bring  him  here  to  stay  with  you.  Keep  cool,  Roux,  and 
be  patient.  You  must  expect  to  see  Antony  very  thin,  for  he 
has  been  sick.  But  he  will  soon  recover.  Now  I  must  go, 
and  to-night  when  it  is  dark,  I  will  bring  him  here.  Good 
bye.  Keep  up  a  good  heart.  He  will  soon  be  with  you." 

"Oh,  I  knew  it  from  the  very  fust,"  complacently  remarked 
Tugmutton,  taking  his  leg  on  his  knee,  and  lolling  back  a  little 
with  the  most  indifferent  air  in  the  world,  "  I  ain't  astonished. 
My  gosh  !  no,  you  can't  astonish  me.  I'm  above  it." 

"  That's  because  you  have  a  great  mind,  Charles,"  said  Har 
rington,  jestingly.  "  Now  just  use  your  talents  in  cheering  up 
your  father — that's  a  good  boy." 


344:  HARRINGTON. 

"I'll  do  it,  Mr.  Harrington,"  replied  the  cheerful  you;h. 
jumping  up  to  let  Harrington  out,  with  his  pear-face  shining 
gleefully.  "  I'll  cheer  him  up  so  that  nobody  '11  ever  know 
him  again.  Good  bye,  Mr.  Harrington.  Call  again." 

Nodding  pleasantly,  Harrington  departed,  while  Tugmuttoa 
waved  his  big  paw  with  a  lofty  air,  like  a  king  dismissing  his 
prime-minister  after  a  cabinet  council,  and  closed  the  door 
after  him. 

In  the  passage  below,  Harrington  met  Mrs.  Eastman,  and 
mentioned  that  he  intended  to  bring  Antony  there  that  evening 
after  dark. 

"  Of  course,"  he  added,  "  there  is  no  danger  of  the  servants 
mentioning  that  there  are  colored  men  in  the  house.  It  would 
not  do  to  have  it  gossiped  about." 

"No,  indeed,"  returned  Mrs.  Eastman,  smiling.  "  They 
have  all,  except  little  Bridg  et,  been  with  us  for  years,  and  are 
like  part  of  the  family.  Not  the  least  danger  of  them.  You 
know,  John,  we  have  had  fugitives  here  several  times  before. 

"  Yes,  I  know  that,"  he  replied,  laughing. 

After  a  minute's  further  conversation,  he  departed,  and  went 
home  to  breakfast,  without  having  asked  for  Emily,  or  seen 
Muriel.  To  tell  the  truth,  a  feeling  of  trepidation — a  sense  of 
some  gathering  mystery  which  made  -his  heart  tremble — had 
grown  upon  Harrington  since  he  had  left  Emily  the  day  before, 
and  he  shrank  in  spirit  from  meeting  her  or  Muriel.  He  felt 
darkly  that  something  of  import,  closely  affecting  him,  remained 
undisclosed  in  the  mutual  relations  of  himself  and  his  friends. 
The  words  of  Wentworth — "  because  it  has  been  played  upon  " 
— rang  in  his  memory  like  a  bell.  Undoubtedly,  Harrington 
would  have  unriddled  the  mystery  almost  as  quickly  as  Muriel 
had  done,  but  the  blundering  avowal  of  Wentworth  that  he 
was  Muriel's  betrothed,  stood  in  the  way  of  his  sight,  and 
baffled  him. 

Restless  ;  ill  at  ease  ;  unwilling  to  think  upon  the  subject, 
which  yet  persisted  in  invading  his  mind  ;  and  in  that  state  of 
nervous  incertitude,  in  which  mysterious  agitations  and  sudden 
tinglings  of  the  blood  incessantly  visit  the  frame,  it  was  a  posi 
tive  relief  to  Harrington  to  get  away  from  himself,  among  the 


HAKKINGTON.  315 

cheerful,  familiar  faces  around  the  Captain's  table.  The  family 
were  assembled  in  the  dining-room,  which  opened  off  the  kitchen. 
A  pleasant,  old-fashioned  room,  looking  on  the  street,  and  fur 
nished  with  plain,  old-fashioned,  homely  furniture.  Curtains 
of  white  dimity  to  the  windows  ;  a  semi-circular  stand,  holding 
rows  of  flower-pots,  at  one  of  them,  from  which  the  smell  of 
geraniums  and  roses  was  shed  throughout  the  aptirtment ;  the 
floor  covered  with  a  woven  rag-carpet  of  soberly  gay  colors  ;  a 
bureau,  spread  with  white  linen  at  one  side,  with  the  minia 
ture  model  of  a  ship  full-rigged,  upon  it  ;  straight-backed  ma 
hogany  chairs,  with  horsehair  seats  ;  two  rocking  chairs,  with 
white  tidies  on  their  backs  ;  a  looking-glass  between  the  win 
dows,  and  on  the  opposite  wall,  on  either  side  of  the  mantel, 
two  portraits,  fearfully  bad,  of  the  Captain  and  his  wife.  The 
Captain,  however,  regarded  these  works  of  art  with  complacent 
satisfaction,  and  held  them  as  chief  among  his  household  trea 
sures.  The  wandering  country  artist  who  had  executed  them, 
had  represented  the  Captain  as  a  dark-eyed,  rosy-cheeked,  star 
ing,  marine  Adonis,  preternaturally  blooming  in  complexion, 
attired  in  an  indigo  blue  coat  with  brass  buttons,  a  buff  waist 
coat,  and  a  frilled  shirt-front,  and  grasping  a  spy-glass  in  one 
hand  and  a  quadrant  in  the  other.  To  match  this  artistic 
triumph,  Mrs.  Fisher  appeared  with  sky-blue  eyes,  lily-white 
complexion,  pink  cheeks  and  lips,  an  azure  dress  with  a  huge 
broach,  and  a  gold  chain  and  pencil-case,  on  which  the  artist 
had  spent  his  finest  genius  and  his  brightest  chrome.  To  trace 
a  resemblance  between  the  portrait,  and  the  kind,  quiet,  pale- 
eyed,  colorless  little  woman  in  a  gauze  cap,  who  sat  at  the 
head  of  the  breakfast-table,  would  have  been  more  difficult  than 
to  establish  a  similar  likeness  between  the  other  portrait  and 
the  Captain.  But  the  Captain  was  happy  in  the  belief  that  the 
portraits  were  gems  of  truth  and  art,  and  as  he  himself  was 
accustomed  to  observe  on  various  occasions,  putting  it  as  a 
profoundly  philosophical  conclusion,  "  What's  the  odds,  so  as 
you're  happy  1" 

A  chorus  of  greetings  welcomed  Harrington,  as  he  came  in 
and  took  his  seat  at  the  breakfast  table. 

15* 


346  HAKKINGTON. 

"  We  began  to  think  you  warn't  comin',  John,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Fisher,  pouring  out  his  coffee. 

"  I  hurried  home  as  quick  as  I  could,  Hannah,"  replied  the 
young  man.  "  Well,  Sophy,  you  look  as  bright  as  gold  this 
morning.  The  jewellers  would  put  you  in  a  box  of  pink 
cotton." 

Sophronitr,  a  plump  and  pretty  little  miss,  with  blue  eyes,  a 
charming  little  snub  nose,  and  a  dimple  in  her  chin,  smiled 
coquettishly  at  this  compliment,  and  glanced  at  the  smiling 
face  of  the  speaker. 

"  My!"  she  exclaimed,  saucily,  "how  smart  you  are,  John  ! 
I  wish  I  could  say  such  pretty  things  to  you/' 

"Well,  try,"  jested  Harrington.  "Compliment  me  on  this 
beard  which  you  admire  so  much." 

"  Beard  indeed  !"  said  Sophy,  tossing  her  head,  with  a 
playful  pout  of  her  ripe  cherry  lips,  "  I  don't  admire  it  at  all. 
The  girls  ought  to  set  their  faces  against  it." 

"  Maybe  they  do,  Sophy,"  returned  Harrington,  with  sly 
significance.  • 

Sophy  was  caught,  and  tossed  her  head,  coloring  and  smil 
ing,  while  the  Captain,  with  his  mouth  full  of  bread  and  butter, 
burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter,  in  which  Mrs.  Fisher,  John  H., 
and  Joel  James  joined,  the  latter  beating  the  table  with  the 
haft  of  his  knife. 

"That's  all  very  well  for  you  to  say,"  said  Sophy,  with 
another  fling  of  her  head,  and  pout  of  her  lip. 

"  And  that's  all  very  well  for  the  girls  to  do,"  bantered 
Harrington,  whereat  the  merriment  burst  forth  again. 

"  Gracious  !  There's  no  use  in  me  talking.  You're  as 
smart  as  a  steel  trap,  John,"  she  answered. 

Joel  James,  a  bluff  and  burly  rosy-cheeked  boy,  with  his 
father's  features  and  his  mother's  blue  eyes,  interrupted  this 
play  of  repartee,  to  say,  with  his  mouth  full  of  breakfast,  that 
his  kite  wouldn't  fly  nohow. 

"  She  pitches  about  like  as  if  she  was  crazy,  John,"  he 
grumbled,  munching  between  the  words. 

"  That's  because  she  hasn't  bob  enough.     We'll  fix  that," 


HARRINGTON.  347 

returned  Harrington,  as  much  interested  in  the  boy's  grievance 
as  if  it  was  an  affair  of  State. 

"  And  I  can't  make  my  peg-top  spin,  John,"  complained 
John  H.,  looking  dolefully  at  Harrington  with  his  soft  black 
eyes  and  chubby  countenance. 

"  Can't  ?  Well,  after  breakfast  I'll  show  you  how,"  said 
Harrington,  good-naturedly.  "  The  kite  shall  fly  and  the  top 
shall  spin,  as  sure  as  the  world  goes  round.  By  the  way, 
Eldad,  how's  our  friend  out  yonder  ?  I  haven't  seen  him 
this  morning." 

The  Captain  glanced  out  at  the  open  window  looking  into 
the  yard,  before  replying. 

"  He's  up,  eating  his  breakfast,"  he  answered.  "  I've 
locked  your  door,  and  the  garden  gate  too,  and  here's  the 
keys,"  he  added,  pointing  to  them  by  the  side  of  his  plate. 

"  Poor  forsaken  critter  !"  murmured  Hannah  compassion 
ately.  "  It  just  made  my  heart  ache  to  see  him  when  I  went 
up  there  yesterday.  He  looked  so  awful  lean  and  sick." 

"  He  looks  a  great  deal  better  this  mornin',"  remarked  the 
Captain.  The  sleep's  done  him  a  heap  of  good.  It's  aston- 
ishiii'  how  much  those  colored  folks  can  bear.  You  wunt 
know  that  chap  in  about  a  week,  he'll  have  fatted  up  so. 
I've  dressed  him  out,  John,  in  some  of  my  old  clothes,  and 
made  him  look  quite  decent." 

"  That's  right,  Eldad,"  said  Harrington.  "  I'll  make  it  up 
to  you." 

The  Captain  laid  down  his  knife,  and  with  his  head  all 
askew,  looked  at  Harrington. 

"  You'll  make  it  up  to  me,  John  ?"  he  remarked,  blandly, 
with  a  great  disposition  to  swear.  "  By  the  spoon  of  horn, 
I'd  like  to  catch  you  at  it  !  The  best  suit  of  clothes  I've  got 
in  the  house  wouldn't  be  too  good  for  a  man  that's  gone 
through  what  he  has — leastways,  if  they  was  fit  for  him,  which 
they  ain't ;  and  I'm  not  goin'  to  be  paid  for  my  Christian 
duty,  young  man." 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,  Eldad,"  returned  Harrington.  "  I 
spoke  hastily,  and  didn't  mean  to  hurt  your  feelings." 

"  Of  course  you  didn't,"  grumbled  the  Captain,  mollified. 


348  HARRINGTON. 

"  It's   only  just  your  plaguy  openhandedness  that  wunt  let 
nobody  go  to  expense  but  yourself." 

"  By  the  way,  Eldad,"  hurriedly  replied  the  young  man, 
steering  off  the  conversation  from  the  approaching  commen 
dations,  "  I'm  going  to  take  him  off  to-night.  He'll  be  safer 
there." 

"  All  right.  So  he  will,"  rejoined  the  Captain,  curtly. 
"  That  is,  if  he's  safe  anywhere  in  Massachusetts  now.  It's 
ebb-tide  with  us  this  year  with  a  vengeance.  If  the  people 
haven't  had  enough  of  conservative  legislation  to  sicken  'em 
this  term  of  the  General  Court,  they  never  will  have.  The 
doin's  of  the  Legislature  have  been  shameful.  Half  a  dozen 
righteous  measures  that  passed  the  Senate,  those  black  sheep 
in  the  House  have  defeated. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Harrington.  "  The  Personal  Liberty  Bill 
is  lost — the  bill  to  protect  the  property  of  married  women  is 
lost,  too — the  bill " 

"  Anyhow,  we've  got  the  Maine  Law,"  interrupted  the 
Captain,  triumphantly. 

"  And  that's  tyranny,  pure  and  simple,"  said  Harrington. 
"  Sorry  to  differ,  Eldad.  I  respect  the  temperance  people, 
and  I  would  go  for  a  law  that  would  shut  up  every  dram-shop 
in  Massachusetts  ;  but  this  Maine  Law  is  a  downright  viola 
tion  of  the  doctrines  of  civil  liberty,  and  I  can't  sacrifice 
liberty  to  temperance  or  anything  else." 

Whereupon  there  was  discussion,  in  which  the  Captain  got 
the  worst  of  it  ;  and  rising,  at  last,  with  his  head  all  awry, 
and  his  features  atwist,  took  his  pipe  from  the  mantel-piece, 
preparatory  to  a  smoke  in  the  yard.  Harrington  rose  also. 

"  Why,  John,"  said  Mrs.  Fisher,  "  you've  made  no  break 
fast  at  all." 

"  Oh  yes,  Hannah,"  he  returned,  cheerily.  "  Plenty. 
Now,  Joel  and  John,  the  kite  and  the  top." 

The  boys  scrambled  off  to  fetch  the  playthings,  while  Har 
rington  went  to  his  own  apartments.  The  kite  and  the  top 
put  in  order,  Captain  Fisher  volunteered  to  mount  guard  over 
Antony  if  Harrington  wanted  to  go  out;  and  availing  himself 
of  this  offer,  the  young  man  posted  off  to  the  fencing-school, 


HARRINGTON.  34:9 

and  after  an  hour's  vigorous  exercise,  returned.  Wentworth 
had  called  in  his  absence,  and  had  left  word  that  he  was  going 
out  of  town  for  the  day,  but  wanted  to  see  Harrington  for 
something  special  to-morrow.  Disturbed  at  this  message — he 
knew  not  why — and  feeling  his  strange  trepidation  stronger 
than  ever,  Harrington,  who,  like  Goethe,  always  sought  relief 
from  cares  and  troubles  in  intense  application  to  his  books, 
immured  himself  for  a  long  day's  study,  dreading  to  see 
Wentworth,  dreading  to  see  Emily,  dreading,  above  all,  to 
see  Muriel,  and  yet  he  knew  not  why. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE    BLOOMING    OF   THE    LILY. 

MURIEL,  in  the  meantime,  had  returned  from  her  walk,  and 
had  a  tender  and  happy  hour  with  Emily.  Emily  was  glori 
ous  that  morning  in  her  beauty,  for  the  Valley  of  Humiliation 
had  burst  and  flamed  into  roses  of  life  and  love,  and  the  Yal- 
ley  of  the  Shadow  lay  far  withdrawn  in  radiance  upon  the 
verge  of  life.  There  were  soft  showers  still  in  the  summer  of 
her  sky,  but  those  were  tears  of  contrite  gratitude  to  Muriel. 
There  were  mellow  thunders  rolling  in  the  summer  of  her  sky, 
but  those  were  words  of  rich  anger  and  scorn  for  Witherlee. 
Muriel  had  guessed  aright.  The  good  Fernando  had  poisoned 
Emily's  mind  against  Wentworth,  and  the  deed  was  done  on 
the  evening  he  had  spent  with  her  after  her  parting  with  her 
lover.  It  would  not  have  appeared  at  all  surprising  to  a 
Court  of  Love  that  Emily,  in  blaming  Wentworth  for  his 
supposed  desertion  of  her,  never  imputed  that  desertion  to  her 
treatment  of  him.  Quite  overlooking  her  own  conduct,  she 
had  taken  his  as  proof  of  Witherlee' s  assertions  regarding 
him.  But  now  the  films  had  dropped  from  her  eyes,  and  in 
her  talk  with  Wentworth  the  night  before,  which  had  lasted 
late  and  long,  she  had  awakened  to  the  perception  of  the  game 


350  HAEELNGTON. 

that  had  been  played  upon  her  by  the  good  Fernando .  How 
she  raved  at  him  !  But  Muriel  laughed  her  angers  down  as 
they  rose,  till  what  might  have  been  sheeting  bursts  were  only 
momentary  jets  of  flame.  For  Muriel  was  optimist  and 
socialist,  and,  referring  the  faults  of  people  to  mal-organiza- 
tion,  mis-education,  and  the  play  of  adverse  influences  upon 
them,  her  golden  charity  spread  even  over  Witherlee. 

Breakfast  came,  and  after  breakfast  Wentworth.  Another 
tender  and  happy  hour  between  the  three,  in  which  Went 
worth  made  some  revelations,  poured  out  his  soul  in  affection 
and  gratitude  to  his  dear  fairy  prince,  as  he  called  her,  and 
lightened  his  scorn  upon  the  good  Fernando.  Then  Muriel 
having,  in  turn,  toned  down  his  meteor  wrath,  he  and  Emily 
set  off  together  to  Cambridge  to  announce  their  engagement 
to  her  parents,  who  were  friends  of  his  family,  and  very  fond 
of  him.  They  were  to  return  the  following  day,  and  Emily 
was  to  continue  her  stay  with  Muriel. 

A  little  while  after  they  left,  Mrs.  Eastman  went  out  to 
spend  that  day  and  night  at  a  relative's  in  Milton,  a  few  miles 
from  Boston,  and  Muriel  was  left  alone. 

No  work  that  day  for  Muriel;  no  study,  no  visiting,  no 
occupation  of  any  kind.  She  summoned  Patrick,  and  bade 
him  deny  her  to  every  one  that  called,  and  then  shut  herself 
up  in  the  library  to  pass  the  day  alone. 

And  all  the  long  bright  day — the  sweet  and  beautiful  deep- 
breathing  sacred  day — while  the  soft  and  opulent  effulgence 
of  the  sun  flooded  the  chamber  with  a  mist  of  violet  and  gold, 
she  lay  at  rest,  or  glided  to  and  fro,  lovely  as  some  incarnate 
angel  from  a  more  ethereal  star  than  ours,  and  with  a  mystic 
change  upon  her  loveliness.  For  the  summer  of  her  life  had 
come  to  her,  and  all  its  virginal  and  dewy  lilies  were  in  bloom. 
Summer  languors  filled  her;  Eden  tremors  melted  through 
her;  and  floating  in  light  and  perfume  through  the  tender- 
litten  land  of  reverie  and  dreams,  she  heard  the  impassioned 
melodies  of  Paradise.  A  more  bewildering  grace  had  fallen 
around  her  form,  and  every  negligent  and  flowing  curve, 
veiled  in  the  soft  and  snowy  drapery  of  the  robe  she  wore, 
seemed  rounded  to  a  contour  more  nobly  and  magically  fair. 


HARRINGTON.  351 

Paint  with  excess  of  happiness,  dreaming  upon  the  sweet  and 
secret  purpose  of  her  heart,  and  musing  in  a  dim  oblivion  of 
tenderness  on  all  that  had  been,  and  was,  and  was  to  be, 
while  ever  on  and  on  the  lilies  of  her  love  grew  glowing  into 
nagic  roses  of  red  hymeneal  joy — so  passed  the  cloistered  day,- 
ind  evening  fell. 

She  rose  from  the  couch  on  which  she  had  sat,  half  reclin 
ing.  The  sunset  light  lay  within  the  library,  and  rested  on 
the  luxuriant  symmetry  of  her  figure,  as  she  stood  with  her 
lands  crossed  upon  her  bosom  and  her  exalted  face  upturned. 

"You  were  right,  my  Emily,"  she  fervently  murmured, 
"  life  is  indeed  life  in  the  greatness  and  sweetness  of  love,  but 
life  is  truliest  life  In  loving  and  being  beloved.  And  yet  had  I 
isked  love,  could  I  have  felt  this  stainless  flame  of  joy  ! 
Sweet,  sweet  when  the  two  souls  give  the  mutual  undemand 
ing  love — sweet,  sweet  as  the  sweetness  of  Paradise  !  Oh,  I 
im  happy,  happy  1" 

She  clasped  her  hands  in  a  calm  transport  of  joy,  and  with 
aer  head  bowed  upon  her  bosom,  like  a  flower  drooping  with 
.ts  wealth  of  bloom,  she  remained  still  and  silent  for  a  little 
svhile. 

"  Ah,  lovers  who  sadden  without  love,  I  think  of  you,"  she 
said  again,  lifting  a  gay  and  radiant  face,  and  speaking  with 
tender'  playfulness.  "  For  you,  poor  lovers,  you  who  bear 
iove's  cross,  and  may  not  wear  love's  crown — for  you  I  pray  ! 
Oh,  doleful  company,  would  that  I  could  make  you  happy, 
MO  !" 

Laughing  a  little  to  herself,  she  let  her  clasped  hands  fall, 
ind  with  a  slow,  harmonious  movement,  glided,  musing,  from 
:he  room. 

She  went  up-stairs  to  the  studio,  and  sitting  by  her  desk, 
svrote  these  lines  to  Harrington. 

"Flos  equitum ! — flower  of  chevaliers!  Be  sure  to  come  this 
evening.  A  matter  of  the  greatest  importance,  so  do  not  fail.  This 
s  a  vermilion  edict.  Hear  aud  obey  !  MUKIEL." 

"  Good  1"  said  she,  laughing  softly,  as  she  folded  the  note. 
;<  A  piebald  epistle  truly.  But,  like  Mercutio's  wound,  it  is 


352  HARRINGTON. 

enough.  And  now  for  some  dinner,  for  no  beautifulest  poet, 
as  Carlyle  says,  but  must  dine,  and  lovers  are  subject  to  the 
same  condition.  Indeed,  I  think  love  gives  one  an  appetite, 
for  I  am  quite  famished." 

•  Gaily  talking  to  herself  in  this  way,  she  went  down-stairs, 
dispatched  Patrick  with  the  note,  and  sat  down  to  her  soli 
tary  dinner,  which  she  had  ordered  to  be  served  at  this  hour. 

It  was  well  that  she  had  written  to  Harrington,  for  the 
young  scholar,  his  mysterious  trepidation  increasing  as  the 
hour  drew  near  when  he  was  to  convey  Antony  to  Temple 
street,  had  decided,  when  the  note  reached  him,  to  send  Cap 
tain  Fisher  with  the  fugitive  instead.  Of  course  he  revoked 
his  decision,  when  he  read  the  missive,  and  quaking  at  heart, 
and  wondering  what  the  "matter  of  the  greatest  importance" 
could  be,  he  set  out  about  half-past  eight  o'clock,  with 
Antony. 

He  had  previously  told  the  poor  man  that  he  knew  his 
brother,  and  was  going  to  take  him  to  him  that  evening,  and 
Antony  was  lost  between  utter  astonishment  and  delighted 
expectation.  To  his  simple  mind,  this  strong,  beautiful, 
friendly,  masterful  Harrington,  who  lived  in  a  house  full  of 
books,  who  treated  him  as  he  had  never  dreamed  even  of 
being  treated  by  a  white  man,  and  who  completed  his  wonder 
ful  benefactions  by  taking  him  to  see  his  brother,  was  little 
less  than  a  god.  Regarding  him  with  actually  servile  reve 
rence,  Antony  thought  he  knew  everything  and  could  do  any 
thing,  and  that  he  was  the  greatest  man  in  the  world. 

Arrived  at  the  house,  they  were  let  in  by  Patrick,  who, 
though  "he  had  been  forewarned  of  the  arrival  of  another  co 
lored  man  that  evening,  looked  a  little  frightened  as  he  caught 
a  glimpse  under  the  hall-light  of  the  black  cheek-bones  and 
ghastly,  hollow  eyes  of  the  fugitive.  Nothing  more  could  be 
seen  of  his  face,  for  Harrington  had  taken  the  precaution  to 
muffle  it  almost  to  the  eyes,  and  the  black  felt  hat  which  the 
fugitive  wore,  he  had  bade  him  keep  on  till  he  saw  his  brother. 
Assisting  his  charge,  who  was  still  weak,  up  into  the  library, 
Harrington  left  him  sitting  there  in  the  dark  room,  lighted 
only  by  the  moon,  and  went  up-stairs  to  announce  his  arrival 


HARRINGTON.  353 

to  Roux.  Returning  in  a  few  minutes,  he  conducted  the 
trembling  fugitive  up  to  the  door  of  the  room  where  Roux 
was,  which  was  ajar,  and  bidding  him  push  it  open,  and  enter, 
he  retreated. 

On  the  stairs  he  heard,  with  a  thrill,  the  rush,  the  cry,  of 
that  meeting,  followed  by  the  shrill  laughter  and  hilarious 
breakdown  of  Tugmutton.  He  did  not  pause,  but  ran  lightly 
down  into  the  library,  and  flinging  himself  into  a  corner  of  a 
cushioned  couch,  he  covered  his  burning  eyes  with  his  hand, 
and  sat  still,  his  heart  swelling  with  compassionate  emotion. 
Harrington  had  none  of  those  imperfect  sympathies  of  which 
Charles  Lamb  speaks  with  such  gentle  humor  ;  and  the  meet 
ing,  after  so  many  years  of  separation,  of  those  two  poor 
black,  uncomely  brothers  of  a  despised  race,  touched  his 
heart  as  much  as  if  they  had  been  the  most  beautiful  and  ele 
gant  people  in  the  world. 

Recovering  in  a  few  moments,  he  looked  up,  and  the  former 
feeling  of  mingled  anxiety  and  trepidation  flowed  back  upon 
his  heart.  Patrick  had  said  Miss  Eastman  wished  him  ushered 
into  the  library,  but  had  he  not  mistaken  his  instructions  ? — 
for  the  library  was  unlighted.  Still  there  was  light  enough 
for  conversation,  for  the  curtains  were  withdrawn,  and  the  pale 
moonlight  streamed  into  the  apartment.  He  watched  it  for  a 
few  minutes  wanly  glimmering  on  the  glass  cases,  filled  with 
books,  which  lined  the  chamber ;  on  the  dim  busts  of  bronze 
which  stood  above  them;  the  pictures  on  the  walls;  the  sta 
tuettes  of  metal  and  marble  on  brackets  and  pedestals;  the  vari 
ous  ornaments  here  and  there;  the  dark  shapes  of  the  rich 
furniture,  all  softly  salient  in  the  dim  light  and  vague  shadows 
cf  the  perfumed  air.  Gradually  his  mind  lost  its  interest  in 
the  phantasmal  effects  before  him,  and  feeling  weary  and  sad 
at  heart,  he  leaned  his  elbow  on  the  arm  of  the  couch,  and 
covering  his  closed  eyes  with  his  hand,  sat  without  moving  for 
a  long  time. 

How  still  the  room  was  !  Dropping  his  hand  from  his  eyes, 
as  a  ghostly  sense  of  its  intense  stillness  crossed  his  mind,  he 
saw,  with  a  sudden  thrill  of  surprise,  the  figure  of  Muriel  in 
the  moonlight  before  him.  She  stood  serene  and  motionless, 


354  HARRINGTON. 

with  a  certain  grave  majesty  of  mien  which  awed  him — her 
beautiful  bare  arms  lightly  laid  one  upon  another,  and  her 
white  robe  falling  softly  around  the  perfect  outlines  of  her  tall 
and  stately  form.  The  moonlight  rested  on  the  shadowy  am 
ber  of  her  hair,  and  on  her  face,  grave  and  sweet,  from  which 
her  dimly  shining  eyes  looked  calmly  upon  him.  A  little  sur 
prised  at  the  suddenness  of  her  appearance,  as  by  her  mystic 
beauty  he  sat  for  a  moment  gazing  at  her. 

"  Do  not  rise,"  she  said,  quietly,  as  he  made  a  movement  to 
leave  his  seat.  "  Remain  where  you  are.  I  have  sent  for  you 
this  evening,  John,  to  converse  with  you  on  a  matter  of 
moment  to  both  of  us." 

Her  voice  had  never  seemed  so  serenely  sweet  as  now.  It 
thrilled  him  like  the  low  tones  of  some  exquisite  musical  instru 
ment.  But  wondering  what  she  could  mean,  and  filled  with 
strange  wonder  at  her  manner,  he  sat  breathlessly  gazing 
at  her. 

"What  is  it,  Muriel?"  he  said  at  length,  in  a  hushed 
voice. 

"  It  is  this,  John,"  she  replied,  still  remaining  motionless. 
"  You  have  not  seen  Wentworth  since  I  saw  you  last  ?" 

"  I  have  not,  Muriel." 

"  Nor  Emily  ?" 

"  No." 

"  I  thought  not,"  she  said,  after  a  pause.  "  John,  I  talked 
with  Wentworth  this  morning,  and  he  told  me  of  a  conversa 
tion  that  passed  recently  between  Mr.  Witherlee  and  your 
master-at-arms — Monsieur  Bagasse.  Wentworth,  for  certain 
reasons  which  he  will  explain  to  you  to-morrow,  told  you  only 
a  portion  of  that  conversation  as  it  was  reported  to  him. 
There  is  a  part  which  I  want  to  tell  you  now." 

Harrington,  who  thought  when  she  mentioned  that  she  had 
spoken  with  Wentworth,  that  she  was  about  to  tell  him  the 
meaning  of  the  strange  speech  the  young  artist  had  flung  at 
Emily,  looked  at  her,  utterly  puzzled  to  know  what  possible 
importance  could  attach  to  the  conversation  between  Bagasse 
and  Witherlee. 

"  The  part  I  want  to  tell  you,  relates  to  you,  John,"  she 


IIARKINGTON.  355 

continued.  "  Mr.  Witherlee  had  led  the  fencing-master  to 
suppose  that  you  ioved  a  lady  whom  he  described  as  wealthy, 
of  high  social  position,  and  much  personal  beauty." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  interrupted  Harrington,  quietly.  "  I  heard 
that  Witherlee  has  represented  me  as  Emily's  lover." 

"  No,"  said  Muriel,  serenely,  "  it  was  not  Emily  he  men 
tioned.  It  was  another  lady." 

Harrington's  heart  leaped  convulsively,  and,  even  in  the 
shadow  where  he  sat,  Muriel  saw  the  color  rush  to  his  face. 

"  Monsieur  Bagasse,"  she  continued,  "  expressed  his  satis 
faction  that  you  were  to  marry  so  fine  a  lady,  whereat  Wither 
lee  told  him  he  was  mistaken,  that  the  lady  would  as  soon 
marry  a  man  out  of  the  poorhouse,  and  that  it  was  very  odd 
that  he  should  think  a  lady  who  belonged,  as  he  said,  to  our 
first  society,  would  wed  a  man  who  wears  such  a  plain  coat  as 
you  do." 

Harrington,  astonished  beyond  measure,  sat  in  silence,  won 
dering  what  object  Muriel  could  have  in  telling  him  this,  all  his 
being,  meanwhile,  one  burning  flush  of  grief  and  pain. 

"  To  which,"  pursued  Muriel,  "  Monsieur  Bagasse  replied  in 
his  French  patois  to  this  effect :  '  Why  is  it  odd  that  a  rich 
and  beautiful  lady  should  love  Mr.  Harrington.  Is  it  odd 
because  he  wears  an  old  coat  ?  Ah,  Mr.  Witherlee,  there  are 
duchesses  that  love  the  old  coat  because  it  covers  the  nobility 
of  heart  they  also  love  !  Listen/  said  Monsieur  Bagasse,  *  to 
what  I  would  do  if  I  were  a  beautiful,  rich  lady,  and  knew  that 
Mr.  Harrington  loved  me.  1  would  say — you  good,  gallant, 
noble  man,  so  like  the  knightly  gentlemen  of  the  heroic  time,  I 
know  that  you  love  me,  and  I  love  you  for  all  you  are.  I  love 
you  with  your  old  coat — I  love  your  old  coat  because  it  has 
covered  you.  Take  me  to  your  heart — take  me  to  your  life — 
share  my  home,  my  wealth — I  am  yours  forever  !  That/  said 
Monsieur  Bagasse,  John,  '  that  is  what  I  would  say  to  Mr. 
Harrington  if  I  were  a  beautiful,  rich  lady,  and  knew  that  he 
loved  me.' " 

Her  voice,  in  saying  all  this,  was  so  even,  so  low  and  clear 
and  sweet,  so  calm  and  unimpassioned,  and  she  stood  so  motion 
less  in  her  mystic  beauty,  with  her  arms  serenely  laid  upon  each 


356  HAEKTNGTON. 

other,  that  Harrington,  sadly  listening,  and  gazing  at  her 
seraphic  face  and  gem-like  eyes,  as  she  bloomed  before  him  in 
the  tender  moonlight,  had  no  sense  of  the  climax  to  which  her 
soul  was  rushing,  no  hint  of  the  meaning  which  her  recital 
concealed.  But  suddenly  a  thrill  stirred  his  pulses,  for  she 
stepped  a  pace  forward,  and  her  arms  fell. 

"  Hear  me,  my  Paladin,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  rose  into 
fuller  melody,  and  a  proud  and  glorious  smile  kindled  her  fea 
tures — "  your  Frenchman's  speech  was  the  voice  of  a  manly 
heart,  and  the  lady  of  whom  Witherlee  spoke,  responds  to  its 
every  word.  Knowing  that  you  love  her,  and  hoping  she  is 
worthy  of  a  love  like  yours,  she  has  said — you,  in  whose  frame 
beat  the  pulses  of  gentlemen  and  chevaliers — you,  in  whose 
soul  the  spirit  of  the  antique  chivalry  lives  anew — take  me,  for 
I  love  you,  and  I  have  loved  you  long.  Take  me  to  your 
heart — take  me  to  your  life — for  I  am  yours  forever  1" 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  stood  in  the  moonlight,  dilated, 
his  eyes  resplendent,  and  his  features  still  and  pallid  as  the  fea 
tures  of  the  dead.  Her  arms  were  stretched  toward  him,  and 
with  all  his  being  yearning  to  her,  he  could  scarcely  restrain 
the  impulse  that  bade  him  whirl  every  consideration  to  the 
winds,  and  clasp  her  to  his  heart.  But  no  :  there  was  some 
mystery  here  to  be  made  plain  ;  he  must  be  sure  that  some 
sudden  passion  had  not  made  her  forgetful  of  her  plighted  faith 
to  another  ;  he  must  not  wrong  his  friend.  The  thought  quelled 
the  tumult  of  his  spirit,  and  held  his  struggling  heart  as  a  giant 
holds  a  giant. 

"  Oh,  I  read  you  well,"  she  exclaimed,  her  arms  sinking 
slowly,  while  she  still  looked  at  him  with  her  proud  and  glorious 
smile.  "  My  soul  is  clairvoyant  to-night,  and  I  read  you  well. 
Love  is  strong,  but  it  is  chained  by  honor.  You  think  me  the 
betrothed  of  Wentworth.  Ah,  no  1  Emily  is  the  betrothed 
of  Wentworth,  and  when  he  told  you  otherwise,  it  was  his  hasty 
blunder — no  more.  John  1"  she  faltered,  and  her  voice  grew 
sweet  and  low — "  you  asked  me  once  to  tell  you  of  the  fairy 
prince  I  was  to  follow  through  all  the  world,  and  I  told  you  I 
would  tell  you  of  him  when  I  found  him.  I  have  found  him — 
here  I" 


HARRINGTON.  357 

The  word  rang  from  her  lips  in  a  fervent  and  adoring  cry, 
and  she  was  in  his  arms.  One  wild,  delirious  instant,  and  then 
the  tumult  of  his  joy  mounted  to  his  brain,  and  spread  into  the 
stillness  of  a  blissful  dream.  0  solemn  ecstasy  of  prayer  and 
peace  !  0  mystic  passion  of  true  love  jmveiled  !  The  moon 
light  rested  on  the  noble  beauty  of  their  forms,  with  the  dark 
and  rich  phantasmal  room  around  them.  They  saw  it  not — 
they  knew  not  where  they  Were.  Tranced  in  the  temple  of 
the  night,  they  stood,  silent,  motionless,  filled  with  ethereal 
light,  as  if  a  rosy  star  had  burst  within  their  being,  filled  with 
an  all-pervading,  holy  tenderness.  Ended  now  the  strange 
delusion — the  restlessness  and  pain,  the  hopeless  yearning,  the 
generous  grief,  the  alternate  hope  and  doubt  and  fleeting  joy, 
the  sad  renunciation,  the  selfless  and  submissive  sacrifice,  were 
ended  ;  they  had  passed  away  like  clouds,  and  the  sweet 
heavens  of  love  remained. 

Slowly  her  head  drooped  back,  and  clinging  to  him  yet, 
her  noble  face,  tranquil  and  wet  with  tears,  gazed  fondly  into 
his. 

"  Beloved  Muriel,"  he  said,  and  his  deep  voice  was  tremu 
lous  and  low,  "  I  came  here  sad  and  dark,  and  you  have  filled 
me  with  light  and  life  and  joy.  What  am  I  that  I  should 
invoke  a  love  like  yours — what  am  I  that  it  should  descend 
to  me  so  rich  in  blessing  ?" 

"  Not  so,  not  so,"  she  fervently  replied.  "  It  is  I  that  am 
bold,  for  I  have  chosen  you  for  my  beloved  from  all  living  men 
I  know.  But  I  love  you.  Oh,  should  I  not  love  you — for  you 
made  life  sweet  to  me,  you  taught  me  to  make  life  noble  !  Dear 
friend  so  long — my  husband  now — still  help  me  to  make  life 
noble,  for  I  could  not  love  you  so  much  if  I  did  not  love  the 
world  you  live  for  more.  Come  ;  we  have  much  to  talk  of. 
Sit  here  by  me." 

She  sank  upon  the  couch  near  by,  and  he  took  a  seat  by  her 
side.  Silent  a  little  while  before  their  talk  began,  they  sat 
folded  in  each  other's  arms,  the  hour  of  wonder  sinking  slowly 
like  a  subsiding  sea,  and  the  moonlight  resting  peacefully  upou 
them. 


358  HARRINGTON. 


CHAPTER    XXIY. 

THE    BLOWING   OF  THE   ROSE. 

DAY,  ethereal  and  splendid,  burst  up  the  wide  horizon  like 
a  hymn,  and  filled  the  sacred  morning  with  light,  and  love  and 
joy.  A  morning  ruled  by  a  celestial  sun — a  morning  blue  and 
golden,  and  throbbing  with  immortality.  To  breathe  was  happi 
ness.  To  drink  the  cool  aerial  wine  of  the  clear,  sweet  atmosphere, 
was  in  itself  rapture.  In  all  the  lustrous  azure  there  was  no  cloud, 
and  the  heavenly  day  seemed  set  apart  and  consecrate  to  love. 

Its  glorious  ray  streamed  through  the  crystal  and  purple 
panes  of  the  rich  library,  and  filled  the  perfumed  air  with  float 
ing  lights  of  violet  and  gold.  The  chamber,  decked  and  fra 
grant  with  a  profusion  of  delicate  and  dewy  blush  roses,  and 
swimming  in  the  sumptuous  colored  radiance,  had  bloomed  into 
a  hymeneal  bower.  But  more  than  all  its  adornments,  was 
the  youthful  beauty  of  Emily  and  Wentworth.  They  sat  by 
each  other,  her  hand  clasped  in  his,  talking  in  gay,  fond  voices, 
and  the  sun  never  shone  on  lovers  more  joyous  and  handsome 
than  they.  His  face,  lit  by  the  blue,  sparkling  eyes  and  the 
proud,  brilliant  smile,  with  the  thick  cluster  of  auburn  locks 
carelessly  curling  on  the  passionate  sloping  brow  and  around 
the  florid  cheeks,  was  turned  to  hers  ;  while  she,  magnificent 
in  her  Spanish  beauty,  her  damask  cheeks  glowing  through 
the  clear  gold  of  her  complexion,  and  heightened  by  the  dark 
ness  of  her  hair,  gazed  at  him  with  lustrous  eyes,  the  pearls  of 
her  curved  carnation  mouth  half  shown  in  her  slow  and  indo 
lent  ambrosial  smile.  So  sat  they  in  the  gold  and  violet  glory 
of  the  room — a  sight  to  make  an  anchorite  forswear  his  weeds, 
and  pray  the  saints  to  send  him  youth  and  love. 

A  bounding  step  was  heard  upon  the  stairs,  and  Emily 
turned,  while  Wentworth  looked  toward  the  door.  It  opened 


HARRINGTON.  359 

presently,  and  the  martial  figure  of  Harrington  appeared. 
The  color  flashed  upon  the  face  of  the  superb  brunette,  and 
springing  to  her  feet,  she  ran  to  him.  Then,  with  her  arms 
around  him,  she  turned  to  Wentworth  with  a  flushed  and 
laughing  face,  and 

"  Are  you  jealous,  Richard,  are  you  jealous  ?"  she  cried, 
'with  riant  gaiety. 

"Jealous?  Jupiter  Pluvius  I"  shouted  Wentworth,  bound 
ing  to  his  feet,  and  rushing  over  to  Harrington. 

Clasping  him  with  an  embrace  of  steel,  Harrington  bent  his 
head,  and  kissed  him  on  each  cheek,  then  pushed  him  from  him, 
with  his  hands  upon  his  shoulders. 

"  That  is  the  kiss  of  France,"  he  gaily  cried.  "  That  is  the 
kiss  of  the  Paris  that  I  love.  And  here,"  he  added,  grasping 
Went  worth's  hand,  "here  is  the  hand  of  the  Old  England  and 
the  New — the  hand  of  love  and  faith  and  the  oaken  heart. 
Yours,  Richard,  now  and  always." 

Wringing  the  generous  hand,  his  face  convulsed,  and  his 
lip  quivering,  Wentworth  gazed  at  his  friend  with  humitl  eyes. 
A  moment,  and  two  bright  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks,  and 
his  head  fell. 

"  Ah,  John,"  he  faltered,  "  I  do  not  deserve  the  hand,  nor 
the  heart  that  gives  it.  I  treated  you  basely,  and  you  n 

"  Hush,  Richard  1  Not  a  word  of  that.  I  know  it  all," 
said  Harrington,  putting  his  right  arm  around  Wentworth, 
and  drawing  him  to  his  breast.  "  You,  too,  Emily,"  and  his 
left  arm  encircled  her. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  deep  and  sweet  as  prayer. 
Standing  so,  with  his  beautiful  and  regal  bearded  face  bent 
down  to  them,  he  gazed  upon  their  features,  solemn  in  that 
moment  with  the  fervor  of  their  love  for  him. 

"  Dear  Emily — dear  Richard,"  he  said,  in  his  strong  melo 
dious  voice,  "  we  will  not  cloud  the  joy  of  this  sacred  day  with 
any  word  of  what  has  passed  forever.  Let  us  not  look  upon 
it  with  one  regret.  Let  us  think  of  it  rather  with  gratitude 
and  blessing  ;  for  it  has  bound  us  together  closer  than  we  were 
before.  See,  I  had  but  two  friends  ;  and  now,  I,  who  have 
no  brother  or  sister  of  my  own,  have  found  a  sister  and  a  bro- 


360 


HARRINGTON. 


ther  in  you.  That  is  worth  the  mutual  pain— that  repays  it 
all.  Behold,  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth  have  come  to  us, 
and  the  former  things  are  passed  away." 

His  voice  ceased,  and  the  silence  came  like  a  benediction. 
In  a  moment,  his  arms  fell,  and  he  turned  from  them.  There 
was  a  pause,  in  which  Wentworth  and  Emily  wandered  to  the 
windows,  wiping  their  eyes. 

"  Ah,  me,"  presently  sighed  Wentworth,  breaking  into  his 
volatile  laugh,  "  as  I  always  say,  I  feel  as  if  I'd  got  religion. 
In  fact,  I've  got  religion  several  times  the  last  few  days." 

"  So  have  I,"  cried  Emily,  dropping  her  handkerchief  from 
her  eyes,  and  laughing  merrily.  "  John  !"  she  exclaimed, 
turning  quickly,  and  sweeping,  with  a  rustle  of  silks,  toward 
Harrington — "  now,  Richard,  don't  be  jealous  !"  she  archly 
said  in  passing — "John,  you  restored  me  to  life.  I  was 
dying  with  my  long  vigil  of  suffering  when  you  held  me  in 
your  arms.  You  lulled  me  to  that  sweet  sleep,  and  when  I 
awoke,  it  was  to  happiness.  You  gave  me  back  my  life,  and 
Muriel  gave  me  back  my  love.  How  can  I  ever  thank  and 
love  you  enough  for  all  you  did  for  me  ?  Hovr  can  I  ever 
repay  you  ?  But  I  owe  you  one  thing — the  kiss  you  gave 
me.  Oh,  I  was  like  an  unloved,  weary  child,  dying  for  affec 
tion  that  hour  when  I  asked  you  to  kiss  me.  See — I  owe  you 
that  kiss,  and  I  give  it  to  you." 

Wentworth,  touched  by  the  simple  and  tender  fervor  of  her 
voice,  and  by  the  child-like  affection  of  her  action,  turned 
away,  filled  with  emotion. 

"  Good,  now  1"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  moment,  wheeling  around, 
and  playfully  assuming  an  injured  air.     "  Just  keep  that  up 
all  day,  will  you  !     Continue  !     I'm  placid.     I  can  stand  any 
amount  of  laceration.     Don't  stop  for  me.     I'll  bear  it." 
They  laughed  gaily,  and  came  toward  him,  arm  in  arm. 

''Well,  you're  a  handsome  couple  anyway,"  pursued  the 
mercurial  Wentworth,  surveying  them  with  an  air  of  bland 
admiration — genuine  admiration,  too,  mixed  with  his  affecta 
tion  of  it.  "  As  for  Emily,  she's  just  what  Muriel  calls  her — 
the  gorgeous  queen-rose  of  Ispahan.  But  you,  Harrington 
— what  have  you  been  doing  to  yourself  ?  I  never  saw  you 


HARRINGTON.  361 

look  so  finely  in  my  life.  Walter  Raleigh — the  beautiful  and 
tall  Sir  Walter — must  have  looked  like  you,  though  I  don't 
believe  he  looked  so  well." 

Emily,  leaning  on  Harrington's  arm,  looked  up  into  his 
face,  and  saw  that  what  Wentworth  said  was  true.  A  change 
had  fallen  upon  the  masculine  bearded  countenance — a  fine 
rapture  lit  its  regular  features — a  faint  color  lessened  its  pal 
lor,  and  the  pure  blue  eyes  swam  in  brilliance. 

"  Indeed,  Richard,  you  are  right,"  said  Emily.  "  He  looks 
as  beautiful  as  the  sun-god." 

"  Exactly.  '  Hyperion's  curls,  the  front  of  Jove  him 
self  » 

"  Oh,  come  now,"  interrupted  Harrington,  blushing.  "  Is 
this  a  meeting  of  the  Mutual  Admiration  Society  ?  You 'pair 
of  gross  flatterers  !  Praising  my  personal  pulchritude  to  my 
face  in  this  way  !  But  do  I  look  well  ?  No  wonder.  Last 
night  I  slept  the  sleep  of  the  blessed,  and  to-day  I  am  happy. 
You  know  why.  Ah  !  and  you  haven't  given  me  joy  yet  I 
Yes,  and  I,  too,  haven't  given  you  joy." 

"  We  know  why  ?  Given  you  joy  ?  Why,  what  do  you 
mean,  John  ?"  cried  Emily. 

"  Hasn't  Muriel  told  you  ?"  said  Harrington. 

"No,"  cried  Emily,  breathlessly;  but  Wentworth  saw  what 
was  coming,  and  a  slow  flush  crept  over  his  illumined  face. 

"  Muriel  and  I  plighted  troth  last  night,"  said  Harrington, 
simply. 

Wentworth  flew  across  the  room  with  a  shout,  and  with 
the  utmost  deliberation  began  to  dance.  Emily  dropped  Har 
rington's  arm,  stood  for  a  moment  pale,  with  her  hands  to  her 
bosom,  glowed  into  bright  color  again,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Oh,  John  !"  she  cried,  springing  back  a  pace,  and  seizing 
his  hands,  with  a  smile  flashing  splendid  through  the  glittering 
rain  on  her  impassioned  face.  "  Oh,  I  am  so  happy  !  Joy, 
joy  to  you  !  I  never  dreamed  of  it — never  1  Joy,  joy, 
joy  I" 

She  wrung  his  hands  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight,  while  Went 
worth,  breaking  from  his  dance,  came  flying  across  the  room, 
and  over  a  chair  that  stood  in  his  way,  and  clutching  away 

16 


362 


HARRINGTON. 


the  right  hand  from  Emily,  shook  it  as  if  he  meant  to  shake 
it  off,  his  face  flushed  and  his  lip  quivering,  and  his  congratu 
lations  breaking  from  his  lips  like  wildfire. 

"  Everlasting  cornucopias  of  happiness  poured  out  upon 
you  both  for  countless  quadrillions  of  never-dying  eternities  !" 
he  hallooed.  "  By  the  Capitolian  Jove,  John,  but  I'm  too 
glad  to  say  a  syllable.  Don't  ask  me  to  give  you  joy,  for 
there's  not  enough  words  in  the  beggarly  English  language  for 
me  to  do  it  with  !  Oh,  thunder  !  if  this  is  not  the  tip-top 
crown  and  summit  of  it  all,  then  I'm  a  Dutchman  !" 

He  burst  away,  panting,  and  hurling  himself  at  full  length 
upon  a  couch,  burst  into  a  ringing  peal  of  jubilant  laughter. 

"  Oh,  Lord  !  I  shall  die !"  he  gasped,  ceasing,  and  fanning 
himself  with  his  hand.  "  Hallelujah  !  Hallelujah  1" 

Harrington,  faint  with  mirth,  sat  down,  and  Emily,  also 
laughing  furiously,  scurried  over  to  Wentworth,  and  shook 
him  till  he  laughed  again,  and  shook  him  till,  aching  with 
laughter,  he  implored  her  to  stop. 

"  Well,  Emily,"  exclaimed  Harrington,  as  she  relinquished 
her  hold  of  her  lover,  "  I  declare  I  never  saw  you  romp  before, 
and  I  did  not  think  you  could." 

"  'Pon  my  word,  she's  as  bad  as  Muriel,"  cried  Wentworth, 
with  a  comical  look  of  mock  anxiety.  "  I'm  afraid  her  aristo 
cratic  morals  are  getting  corrupted  by  the  company  she  keeps 
in  this  house." 

"  Well,  John,"  said  Emily,  a  little  flushed  and  panting  with 
her  exertions,  and  laughing  in  short  fits  as  she  spoke,  "  I 
believe  you  are  right.  Romping  is,  if  not  new  to  me,  very 
unusual.  But  to-day  I  am  so  happy,  I  hardly  know 
what  I  am  doing.  This  glad  news  takes  me  out  of  myself 
completely.  Oh,  I  am  so  rejoiced  !  And  to  think  that 
Muriel  never  told  me  !  Cunning  fox  I  But  I'll  be  even 
with  her  for  it.  I  see  now  why  she  has  decked  the  room  with 
such  a  wilderness  of  roses.  She  is  going  to  make  it  a  fete 
day  in  honor  of  her  engagement." 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Harrington,  starting  up.  "I  didn't 
notice  all  these  exquisite  flowers  before,  but  I  suppose  that  is 
the  reason  why  she  has  filled  the  library  with  them." 


HARRINGTON.  363 

"  You  suppose,"  said  Emily.     "  Why,  don't  you  know  ?" 

"  Not  I,"  replied  Harrington,  laughing.  "  Muriel  asked 
me  to  come  and  spend  the  day  with  her,  and  only  said  she  was 
going  to  give  me  an  agreeable  surprise.  She  wouldn't  tell  me 
what  the  agreeable  surprise  was,  but  I  suppose  this  is  it. 
How  exquisite  and  sweet  they  are,"  he  murmured,  bending 
over  a  shallow  vase  of  Parian,  filled  with  the  roses,  and  inhaling 
their  delicate  fragrance. 

"  When  are  you  to  be  married,  John  ?"  asked  Emily. 

"  I  declare  I  don't  know,"  said  he  naively.  "  I  never 
thought  of  asking  Muriel." 

"  Never  thought — well,  that's  a  good  one  I"  exclaimed 
Went  worth.  "  Why,  almost  the  first  thing  I  asked  Emily 
after  our  betrothal  was  " 

"  Now,  Richard,"  cried  Emily,  scampering  up  to  him  with 
a  laugh,  and  sealing  his  mouth  with  her  hand. 

Wentworth  struggled  to  get  free,  and  succeeding  in  a 
minute,  seized  her  hands,  and  held  them,  she,  in  turn,  endea 
voring  to  get  them  upon  his  mouth  again. 

"  Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak  1"  he  declaimed,  with  serio 
comic  dignity.  "  The  first  thing  I  asked  Emily,  John,  was — 
when  are  we  to  be  married  ?" 

"  And  what  did  she  say  ?"  inquired  Harrington,  amusedly. 

"  She  said  October,  John,"  replied  Emily,  laughing.  "  He 
shan't  tell  you.  I'll  tell  you  myself.  Yes,  John,  we  are  to 
be  married  in  October.  See  my  betrothal  ring.  Is  it  not 
beautiful  ?" 

He  took  the  fair  hand  in  his,  and  looked  at  the  exquisite 
opal,  whose  soft,  clouded  flames  of  iridescent  color  shone  on 
her  finger. 

"  Beautiful,"  he  assented,  pressing  the  hand  to  his  lips.  "  I 
pray  for  your  life-long  happiness,  dear  Emily.  Yours  and 
Richard's.  And  may  I  be  present  at  your  wedding  ?" 

"  Indeed  you  must,"  she  answered.  "  It  would  be  but  half 
a  wedding  if  you  were  not  there."  » 

"  My  sentiments,"  cried  Wentworth.  "  Without  you,  John, 
our  wedding  would  be  a  fiasco.  But  it  is  to  be  a  grand  affair. 
In  open  church,  crowds  of  guests,  Emily  in  full  bridal  array, 


364  HARRINGTON. 

with  a  small  army  of  bridesmaids,  and  I  in  gorgeous  toggery, 
with  a  retinue  of  grooms  which  will  astonish  your  Spartan 
simplicity.  Oh,  I  tell  you,  we  shall  blow  out  in  splendid 
hymeneal  flower,  amidst  overpowering  magnificence  !" 

"  Hear  the  absurd  fellow  !"  exclaimed  Emily,  smiling  at 
Harrington,  who  stood  listening  half-amusedly,  half-pensively, 
as  the  gay  Richard  ran  on.  "  Only  listen  to  him.  But  it  is 
true,  John — we  are  to  have  a  splendid  wedding." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  he  replied.  "  You  are  both  splen 
did,  and  it  is  natural  and  proper  for  you  to  put  forth  splendid 
rays  on  such  an  occasion." 

"  Nevertheless,  I'll  bet  you  won't  find  Harrington  and 
Muriel  flashing  out  like  us,  Emily,"  cried  Wentworth,  showing 
his  fine  teeth  in  a  brilliant  laugh.  "  I  wouldn't  be  afraid  to 
wager  that  you'll  see  that  young  man  married  in  his  ordinary 
clothes,  without  a  rag  of  a  white  kid  glove,  or  an  ornament  of 
any  kind  whatever,  or  wedding  cake,  or  cards,  or  guests,  or 
anything." 

11  Why,  Richard,  I  don't  know,"  said  Harrington,  smiling 
good-naturedly.  "  If  Muriel  were  to  wish  the  usual  parade  I 
would  agree  of  course.  But  you  are  right — my  choice  would 
be  as  little  external  show  as  possible.  Some  simple  rites 
would  be  more  grateful  to  me  than  any  pomp  or  display. 
Marriage  to  me  is  so  private  and  spiritual  a  sacrament  that  it 
seems  a  sort  of  profanation  to  make  it  public — or  surround  it 
with  factitious  embellishments.  These  flowers  for  example, 
this  sweet,  rich  room,  Muriel  lovely,  and  clothed  as  befits  her 
loveliness,  I  in  this  plain  coat,  not  very  new,  but  well-fitting 
and  graceful,  Mrs.  Eastman  and  you  two  loving  friends  here 
— what  more  could  I  desire  to  decorate  my  wedding  ?  And 
less  than  this — yes,  nothing  of  this — Muriel  and  I  alone  in 
some  quiet  room,  or  under  the  blue  sky,  or  the  forest  trees, 
pledging  ourselves  to  each  other  in  spirit  and  in  truth — this 
of  itself  would  be  enough,  and  would  make  the  most  imperial 
Bridals  seem  gaudy  and  theatrical." 

"  Then  you  object  to  our  fine  fashionable  wedding,  John," 
said  Emily,  playfully. 

"Oh  no — not  object,"  returned  Harrington,  coloring,  with 


HARRINGTON.  365 

an  embarrassed  air.  "  Have  I  said  too  much  ?  Have  I  cast 
any  personal  reflections  ?  I  hope  not,  for  I  did  not  mean  to. 
I  only  meant  to  say  that  the  ideal  nobleness  and  beauty  of 
marriage  are  not  very  well  expressed  by  the  usual  modish  and 
artificial  ceremonials  and  decorations.  The  thing  itself  is  holy 
and  poetic.  Let  the  rites  and  adornments  be  holy  and  poetic 
too.  That  is  all." 

Emily  turned  away,  musing,  and  Wentworth  twirled  his 
gay  moustache  with  an  abstracted  air. 

"  But  where's  Muriel,  I  wonder  ?"  said  Harrington,  after  a 
pause. 

"  Here  she  is — no,  it's  our  dear  mamma,"  exclaimed  Went 
worth. 

"  Your  mamma  it  is,  children,"  said  Mrs.  Eastman,  coming 
into  the  room,  silver-gay,  with  her  bonnet  on.  "  I  have  just 
returned  from  Milton,  and  heard  your  voices,  or  rather  John's 
voice,  as  I  came  up-stairs.  But,  bless  me,  where  did  all  these 
flowers  come  from  ?  Why,  the  library  is  turned  into  fairy 
land  1" 

"  Ah,  mamma,"  said  Emily,  "  we  are  all  in  fairy-land  to-day, 
and  the  fairy-prince  has  done  it,  with  the  help  of  this  fairy 
chevalier,"  and  she  bent  her  head  toward  Harrington. 

"  Why,  what  has  happened  to  you,  children  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Eastman',  laughing  softly,  as  she  removed  her  bonnet. 

"  Now,  mamma,"  said  Wentworth,  fronting  her  with  Emily 
on  his  arm,  "  I'm  going  to  surprise  you.  Prepare  to  be  sur 
prised." 

"  Well,  I'm  ready,"  said  Mrs.  Eastman,  gaily. 

"  Emily  and  I  are  to  be  married  in  October,"  said  Went 
worth,  suddenly. 

"  My  dear  children,  I  am  more  glad  to  hear  this  than  I  can 
say,"  fondly  replied  Mrs.  Eastman,  kissing  both  of  them. 
"  But,  Children,  you  don't  surprise  me  at  all,"  she  added,  with 
smiling  equability.  "I  saw  that  you  were  lovers  some  time 
since,  and  was  expecting  this." 

Mrs.  Eastman  might  have  also  said  that  she  saw  they  had 
quarrelled,  and  knew  what  was  the  matter  with  Emily  during 
her  night  and  day  of  sorrow,  but  she  was  discreet  and  did  not. 


366  HARRINGTON. 

"  There  1"  exclaimed  Wentworth,  with  a  grimace,  "  there's 
my  surprise  now  ?  Mamma,  you're  a  witch,  and  there's  no 
keeping  anything  from  you  !" 

"  Stop,  Richard  1"  cried  Emily.  "  Let  John  try  his  hand 
at  a  surprise." 

Mrs.  Eastman  was  well  named  Serena,  she  was  so  sweetly 
calm,  but  the  color  rose  to  her  face,  and  she  trembled,  as  Har 
rington  came  toward  her  with  outstretched  arms. 

"  Mother,"  he  fervently  said,  holding  her  in  his  embrace, 
"  you  have  your  wish.  I  was  mistaken.  Last  night,  Muriel 
and  I" 

Her  eyes  filled,  and  without  a  word  she  flew  from  his  arms 
and  out  of  the  room.  Harrington  covered  his  humid  eyes 
with  his  hand,  and  stood  still.  Wentworth  and  Emily  moved 
silently  away,  with  hushed  faces. 

It  was  but  a  moment,  and  she  came  back  with  a  swift,  free 
step,  her  calm  face  lighted  between  its  silver  tresses,  the  tears 
upon  her  cheeks,  and  put  her  arms  around  him. 

"  Hush  I"  she  whispered.  "  Do  not  speak  to  me.  Let  me 
dream  of  this.  I  am  too  happy." 

His  arms  had  enfolded  her,  and  with  his  eyes  closed,  and  his 
lips  pressed  to  her  beautiful  silver  hair,  while  her  face  lay  upon 
his  bosom,  they  stood  still. 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured,  after  a  long  pause,  looking  up  with 
a  still  and  radiant  face  into  his  noble  countenance,  "  yes,  I 
have  my  wish,  and  I  am  happy." 

She  placed  her  arm  in  his,  and  moved  with  him  across  the 
library. 

"Well,  mamma,"  said  Emily,  with  her  ambrosial  smile, 
"  We  did  surprise  you,  after  all." 

"  Yes  and  no,  dear  Emily,"  replied  Mrs.  Eastman,  fondly 
looking  at  Harrington.  "  Yes  and  no.  It  was  the  evening 
star  of  my  life  ;  a  cloud  obscured  it,  but  I  still  had  faith  that 
my  evening  star  was  there." 

There  was  a  pause,  filled  by  the  pensive  memory  of  her 
voice.  Suddenly  Wentworth  and  Emily  uttered  a  low  exclama 
tion,  and  Mrs.  Eastman  and  Harrington  turned,  started,  and 
stood  still.  It  was  Muriel,  but  Muriel  transfigured  in 


HARRINGTON.  367 

resplendent  beauty.  A  robe  of  rich,  ethereal  vivid  crimson, 
at  once  soft  and  glowing,  like  the  color  of  the  rose,  cut  low, 
and  encircling  the  shoulders  by  only  a  narrow  gathered  band, 
spread  loosely  around  her  bosom,  and  descending  in  many  light 
folds,  expressed  her  perfect  form,  and  heightened  the  dazzling 
fairness  of  her  complexion.  Color  faint  as  the  hues  of  -the 
blush  roses  whose  ecstatic  odors  filled  the  room,  bloomed  on 
her  cheeks  and  lips  ;  her  amber  hair,  encircled  by  a  slender 
fillet  of  myrtle,  bright  green,  small  leaved,  and  terminating  on 
either  side  with  a  rose,  drooped  low  in  rippling  tresses  around 
her  radiant  and  hymn-like  face  ;  and  her  mouth  rosy-pale 
against  its  milk-white  teeth,  was  parted  in  an  enchanting 
smile.  Gliding  forward,  with  her  noble  harmony  of  move 
ment,  the  floating  gold  and  violet  glory  that  filled  the  chamber 
resting  on  her  beauteous  face  and  figure,  and  her  sumptuous 
drapery  falling  around  her  faultless  limbs,  she  seemed  some 
wondrous  vision  of  incarnate  joy.  So  sacred,  so  transcendent 
was  her  bewildering  loveliness,  that  they  gazed  upon  her  with 
strange  awe,  as  in  the  presence  of  her  in  her  immortality.  . 

Harrington  looked  at  her,  rapt,  and  passion-pale  ;  then 
with  a  thrill  of  melting  tenderness,  as  if  his  soul  was  dissolv 
ing  in  his  frame,  he  closed  his  giddy  eyes  and  bowed  his  head 
upon  his  clasped  hands. 

"  Harrington,  my  beloved  !v 

He  started  at  the  deep  eolian  music  of  her  voice,  and  hold 
ing  her  in  his  arms,  gazed  with  an  impassioned  face  into  her 
clear  lambent  eyes. 

"  Ah,  Muriel,  Muriel  !"  he  fervently  murmured,  "  I  tremble 
lest  you  make  life  too  sweet  for  me.  Oh,  dear  friends,"  he 
cried,  "  you  can  bear  to  see  the  dance,  for  you  hear  the  music  ! 
Look  at  her  ;  is  she  not  beautiful  ?" 

A  low  murmur  of  admiration  ran  from  lip  to  lip,  and  Emily, 
breaking  from  her  trance,  embraced  Muriel  and  kissed  her  fer 
vently.  Then  her  mother,  with  tender  and  pathetic  words  of 
endearment,  folded  her  to  her  heart. 

"  Oh,  my  daughter,"  she  said,  gently  and  mournfully,  "  what 
would  I  give  if  your  father  could  see  you  now  !  He  who  hung 
over  your  cradle  so  often  in  your  infancy,  and  called  you  so 


368  HARRINGTON. 

fondly  his  glorious  little  child,  what  would  I  give  if  he  could 
see  you  now  in  your  glorious  womanhood  !" 

"  Dear  mother,  he  sees  me,"  answered  Muriel,  her  face  lit 
with  a  celestial  smile,  and  her  clear  eyes  upturned.  "  In  this 
the  best  and  brightest  hour  of  my  life,  he  sees  me  !  He  is 
alive  and  well,  and  he  sees  me  I" 

In  the  solemn  pause  which  followed,  while  they  stood  with 
dim  eyes  and  heads  bowed,  it  seemed  as  if  some  silent  spirit 
stood  among  them  in  the  rich  glory  of  the  room. 

The  thrilling  feeling  slowly  died  away  like  failing  music,  and 
timidly  looking  up,  Wentworth  saw  the  eyes  of  Muriel  sink 
from  their  celestial  height  and  rest  kindly  and  lovingly  on  him. 

"  Come  to  me,  Richard,"  she  said.  "  You  alone  have  not 
spoken  to  me-; — you  alone  have  not  expressed  your  joy." 

"  Muriel,"  he  answered,  moving  near  her,  with  a  timid  and 
tardy  step,  "if  so  bad  a  boy  as  I  am" 

"  Bad  ?  oh,  no  !  You  are  not  a  bad  boy,"  she  said  with 
tender  playfulness,  caressing  him  as  she  spoke.  "  You  are  my 
own  dear  brother  Richard,  gallant,  and  fond,  and  true.  Could 
I  love  you  if  you  were  not  ?  Could  I  kiss  you  thus,  and  thus, 
and  thus,  with  magic  kisses  three  ?"  she  said,  kissing  him  each 
time  as  she  said  the  word,  and  smiling  at  him  with  bewitching 
gaiety.  "  Ah  !  I  am  very  happy  this  morning  !  That  is  the 
reason  you  all  admire  me  so.  See  :  my  joy  has  burst  into  its 
fullest  flower,  and  this  is  its  color  and  its  symbol." 

Smiling  upon  them,  she  laid  her  hand  on  her  gorgeous 
crimson  robe. 

"  I  see,"  said  Emily,  "  Madame  de  Stael  said  the  color  of 
the  trumpet-sound  was  crimson,  and  the  sound  of  the  golden 
trumpet  is  the  sound  of  joy.  Oh,  Muriel,  I  never  saw  you 
dressed  so  admirably.  You  are  splendid  as  the  sun  !" 

"  Yes,  and  mark  you  now,"  said  Wentworth,  gaily,  "  there 
is  another  symbol  here.  This  is  the  color  of  the  dress  of  the 
fairy  prince.  Ah,  it  is  the  same  dress,  too,  if  you  only  knew 
it.  The  fairy  prince  wove  a  spell  of  weird,  gave  one  touch  of 
the  magic  wand,  and  lo  !  the  crimson  cymar  changed  into  a 
crimson  robe,  and  the  fairy  prince  stands  before  you  transformed 
into  a  fairy  princess  1" 


HABEINGTON.  369 

"  Bravo,  Richard  1"  said  Harrington,  "  that  is  ingenious, 
now." 

"  And  then,"  continued  Wentworth,  "  the  gold  embroidery 
on  the  cymar  melted  into  gold  lustre,  and  passed  into  Muriel's 
eyes.  See  how  golden  her  eyes  are  this  morning.  Their  clear 
grey  looks  through  a  transparent  sheen  of  gold." 

"  They  are  golden  with  love,  then,"  said  Muriel,  laughingly, 
"  for  the  cymar  is  up-stairs,  with  all  its  embroidery  intact.  It 
is  Harrington  who  is  the  fairy  prince,  and  I  am  the  Sleeping 
Beauty  whom  he  waked  from  her  sleep  of  twenty  years,  and 
now  I  am  to  follow  him  through  all  the  world.  But  come, 
John,  I  promised  you  an  agreeable  surprise  this  morning,  you 
know." 

"  Well,  and  have  you  not  given  it  to  me  ?"  said  Harring 
ton,  smiling  at  her.  "  This  beautiful  room,  all  bedecked  with 
roses,  and  then  yourself  in  your  miraculous  beauty — why,  I  am 
in  receipt  of  two  agreeable  surprises  1" 

"  Ah,  John,"  she  replied,  with  enchanting  gaiety,  "  but  I 
have  a  third  more  wonderful  than  those." 

"  What  is  it  ?"  asked-  Harrington,  amusedly. 

"  Fll  tell  you,"  she  answered.  "  Friends,  attention  !  My 
dear  mother,  do  you  remember  the  little  conversation  we  had 
at  dinner  the  day  before  yesterday  ?" 

"  Perfectly,"  replied  Mrs.  Eastman,  coloring  slightly,  and 
looking  at  her  charming  daughter  with  some  wonder. 

"  Well,  my  dear  mother,"  returned  Muriel,  with  bewitching 
playfulness,  "  I  reflected  seriously  all  day  yesterday  on  what 
you  said,  and  I  decided  to  oblige  you.  John,  come  here  to 
me." 

Harrington,  curious  to  know  what  was  meant  by  this  pre 
face,  approached,  and  stood  before  her  with  a  sweetly  smiling 
countenance.  Slowly  her  beautiful  white  arms  stole  around 
him,  clasped  him  lightly,  and  drew  him  to  her.  It  seemed  in 
that  moment  as  if,  in  the  noble  features  upturned  to  his,  all 
the  versatile  expressions  of  which  they  were  capable  darted 
magically  together  in  a  bewildering  and  harmonious  play,  like 
the  soft  floating  and  intermingling  of  evanescent,  tender  rain 
bow  hues  on  a  clear  and  delicate  ah*.  But  slowly  through 

16* 


370  HARRINGTON. 

their  indecisive  enchantment  broke  a  dazzling  smile,  a  fairy 
tremor  lifted  her  fine  nostril,  the  color  bloomed  deeplier  on 
her  cheeks  and  lips,  and  her  eyes  glowed. 

"  John  !"  said  she,  in  a  clear,  melodious  voice,  "  this  is  our 
marriage  morn." 

A  splendid  scarlet  flamed  on  the  face  of  Harrington,  and 
with  a  start  he  clasped  her  to  his  breast,  gazing  into  her  face 
with  eyes  like  wondering  stars.  Mrs.  Eastman,  ineffably  asto 
nished,  but  more  ineifably  amused,  that  Muriel  had  taken  her 
at  her  word,  sank  into  a  chair,  with  her  countenance  Hushed, 
and  burst  into  low  laughter  ;  while  Emily,  with  the  rich  color 
suffusing  her  features  and  her  eyes  and  mouth  orbed  in  won 
der,  pressed  her  folded  hands  to  her  bosom  ;  and  Wentworth 
stared  vacantly,  with  his  face  as  red  as  fire. 

"  This  the  morning  of  our  marriage  !"  exclaimed  Harring 
ton.  "  This  !" 

"  This  it  is,  John,"  she  replied,  gaily,  "  and  this  is  my  third 
agreeable  surprise.  How  do  you  like  it  ?" 

Harrington,  with  a  sudden  motion,  bent  his  head  and 
kissed  her. 

"  Muriel,  Muriel !"  he  laughingly  cried,  "  you  are  indeed  a 
fairy  princess  !  You  touch  the  moment,  and  it  bursts  into  the 
unexpected  miracle-flower  of  joy." 

"  Now  by  all  the  gods  at  once  !"  exclaimed  the  volatile 
Wentworth,  and  bounding  up  with  three  distinct  pigeon-wings 
into  the  air,  he  came  down  again  erect  and  gallant,  and  burst 
into  a  peal  of  mellow  laughter. 

"  Well  I  declare  !"  ejaculated  Emily.  "  Of  all  the  splendid 
freaks  I  ever  heard  of,  this  is  the  most  splendid.  To  be 
married  this  morning  I  But  who's  to  marry  you  ?  where's  the 
minister  ?" 

"  Oh,  he's  coming,"  returned  Muriel,  smiling.  "I  wrote  a 
note  to  Mr.  Parker  this  morning,  and  he  is  to  be  here  at 
ten." 

"  Good  !"  exclaimed  Harrington.  "  If  I  am  to  have  any 
minister  to  marry  me,  let  it  be  Mr.  Parker.  It  will  be  an 
added  consecration." 

"  I  knew  you  would  think  so,"  replied  Muriel. 


HARRINGTON.  371 

"  To  be  sure/'  he  answered.  "  He  would  consider  me  a 
heathen,  looking  at  me  theologically,  but  that's  no  matter." 

Muriel  looked  at  his  smiling  countenance,  and  shook  her 
finger  at  him. 

"  Oh,  you  Yerulamian  heretic  !"  she  exclaimed,  gaily. 

"  Well,  Muriel,"  'laughed  Emily,  "  I'm  sure  you're  very 
obliging  to  have  even  Mr.  Parker.  With  your  invincible 
hostility  to  Madame  la  Grundy,  it  is  positively  a  remarkable 
concession."  % 

"  Ah,  dear  Emily,"  replied  Muriel,  smiling  tenderly,  "  can 
the  words  of  a  clergyman  make  more  holy  the  union  of  lovers, 
who  love  in  spirit  and  in  truth  !  Were  Mr.  Parker  not  in  the 
world,  and  were  we  in  Pennsylvania  to-day,  and  not  in  Mas 
sachusetts,  •!  would  rather  choose  to  stand  up  with  John  before 
our  friends,  avowing  our  love  in  the  sweet  and  beautiful  old 
simple  Quaker  fashion,  and  sparing  every  other  rite  beside. 
To  have  the  spiritual  marriage  publicly  recognized  would  be 
enough.  But  then,"  she  added,  with  gentle  gaiety,  "  on  this 
point,  Mrs.  Grundy  has  the  law  on  her  side,  so  I  curtsey  and 
submit,  hoping  to  atone  for  the  submission  by  a  long  series  of 
flagrant  rebellions,  against  which  there  is  no  statute  !  For 
while  it  is  both  proper  and  necessary,  as  things  stand,  that 
Mrs.  Grundy  should  be  obeyed,  it  is  also  proper  and  necessary 
as  things  stand,  that  the  dear  old  woman  should  be  defied. 
So  there's  a  paradox  for  you  1" 

"  Bravo  !"  cried  Wentworth.  "  Centripetality  and  centri- 
fugality  for  ever  !" 

"  Exactly  so,"  replied  Muriel,  with  a  frolic  curtsey.  "  Now, 
mother,  there  you  sit  without  saying  a  word,  and  you  haven't 
told  me  yet  whether  you  are  going  to  lend  the  light  of  your 
countenance  to  my  extraordinary  proceedings." 

"  Of  course  I  am,  dear,"  cried  Mrs.  Eastman,  starting  up  to 
kiss  her  bewitching  daughter,  while  they  all  rippled  off  into 
lively  talk  and  the  hilarity  of  the  immortals. 

"  Come,"  said  Muriel  in  a  few  moments,  "let  us  have  music 
till  Mr.  Parker  comes.  Gluck  and  Mendelssohn  and  the  divine 
Mozart  and  Beethoven,  shall  speak  for  us  to-day.  Color  and 
fragrance,  and  dancing,  and  silence  can  express  deep  joy,  but 


372  HARKINQTON. 

music  expresses  it  as  nothing  else  can,  and  to-day  is  the  flower 
of  my  existence." 

•  She  moved  as  she  spoke  to  the  organ,  and  the  gorgeous 
tones  of  golden  bronze  rolled  forth  in  sunset  clouds  of  heavenly 
harmony,  with  her  seraph  voice  singing  sweet  among  them. 
Pass,  hour  of  noble  raptures,  hour  of  the  spirit,  hour  of  celes 
tial  love  and  hope  and  joy,  pass,  fitting  prelude  for  his  coming 
— the  valiant  soul  and  tender,  now  blest  among  the  blessed, 
whose  disenchanted  dust  lies  in  ti^e  holy  soil  of  Florence,  and 
lends  one  hallowed  memory  more  to  the  land  of  Dante's 
grave  ! 

It  was  like  a  sacred  dream  in  which  he  came — the  mighty, 
the  well-beloved,  the  lion-hearted  Theodore  ;  he  of  the  domed 
brow,  the  Socratic  features,  resolute  and  tender,  and  stern  at 
times  with  the  long  battle  he  waged  for  Christian  liberty  j  he 
of  the  beautiful  and  dove-like  eyes  whose  clear  sweetness  the 
roaring  hatred  of  his  foes  could  never  stain  or  change.  It  was 
like  a  sacred  dream  in  which  they  heard  the  noble  language 
of  his  charge  inspiring  them  to  lives  of  holiest  and  highest 
humanhood,  and  then  while  the  dream  deepened  into  an  inter 
val  of  unutterable  calm,  and  a  stiller  glory  seemed  to  swim,  a 
more  celestial  fragrance  seemed  to  flow,  upon  the  quiet  of  the 
room,  the  pledges  of  the  nuptials  were  spoken,  and  his  voice 
arose  in  tender  and  fervent  supplication  to  the  Heavenly 
Father  of  the  world — Father  and  Mother,  too — Father  of 
Love  and  Freedom  and  all  that  makes  the  world  more  fair — 
Lover  of  lovers,  and  Lover  of  the  world  He  made — that  the 
eternal  spring-tune  of  His  Presence  might  rest  upon*  their 
wedded  lives,  greenness  and  strength  and  beauty  to  them  for- 
evermore. 

It  was  still  a  sacred  dream,  when  he  had  gone.  But  the 
very  air  seemed  to  tremble  with  an  ecstasy  of  painful  happi 
ness,  and  Muriel,  pale  with  a  joy  which  was  insupportable, 
because  voiceless,  glided  to  the  organ. 

Softly  again  upon  the  glory  of  the  air,  drifted  the  molten 
bronze  of  the  rich  music  and  her  clear  soprano,  sweet  and  low, 
arose  and  blende'd  with  the  heavenly  anthem.  Sweet  and  low 
as  the  mother's  cradle  hymn,  and  tender  as  the  renieinbereC 


HAEEINGTON.  373 

songs  of  childhood,  it  floated  on  above  the  mellow  murmur  of 
the  instrumental  flow ;  and  rising  like  a  thrilling  gush  of  per 
fume  into  more  celestial  melody,  it  rose  again  in  rapturous 
ascension,  intermingled  with  the  surging  and  dilating,  swell  of 
the  organ-tones,  and  rang  in  pealing  hallelujahs,  draining  the 
soul  of  every  earthly  thought  and  feeling,  and  lifting  it  pale 
and  throbbing  on  the  burning  wings  of  seraphs  into  the  light 
and  odor  of  the  Life  Divine.  Then  sinking  slowly,  voice  and 
music  failed  upon  the  palpitating  air,  failed  from  the  spirits 
throbbing  with  the  blended  sweetness,  and  the  room  was  still. 

She  rose  from  the  organ  with  her  face  inspired,  and  turned 
to  be  folded  in  the  arms  of  Harrington. 

"  Ah,  Muriel,"  he  fervently  murmured,  "  your  songs  are 
more  than  '  the  benediction  that  follows  after  prayer  !' " 

She  did  not  answer,  but  stood  silently  in  his  embrace,  with 
her  face  bent  upon  his  breast.  Lifting  it  to  his  at  length,  she 
looked  upon  him  with  glowing  eyes. 

"  We  are  married,"  she  said.     "  Do  you  realize  it  ?" 

"Hardly,"  he  replied.  "But  it  is  true.  We  are  one. 
One  in  love  for  liberty." 

"  One  in  love  for  liberty,"  she  echoed.  "  One  in  love  for 
,  all  mankind." 

They  stood  in  silence  for  a  few  moments.  Then  turning 
with  their  arms  around  each  other,  they  saw  Emily  and  Went- 
worth  sitting  together  in  deep  abstraction. 

"Well,  Richard  and  Emily,  what  are  you  thinking  of?" 
Muriel  playfully  demanded. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  returned  Wentworth  more  gravely  than 
was  usual  with  him,  "that  is  before  your  singing,  Muriel, 
lifted  me  out  of  my  mind,  as  it  always  does — I  was  thinking 
what  a  man  Mr.  Parker  is.  How  great  and  noble — how 
beautiful  were  his  words  and  manner.  •  Ah,  that  was  a  true 
marriage  service  I" 

"  And  so  was  I,"  cried  Emily,  who  had  been  weeping  a 
little.  "  I  was  thinking  the  same* thing.  I  shall  never  hear 
our  own  minister  with  comfort  again." 

"  Oh,  flower  of  Episcopalians,  are  you  turning  Parkerite  ?" 
gaily  exclaimed  Muriel. 


374:  HARRINGTON. 

"I  declare  I  believe  I  am,"  sighed  Emily,  so  dolefully  that 
Wentworth  began  to  laugh,  and  she  herself  followed  his 
example. 

"  Come,"  cried  Wentworth,  starting  to  his  feet,  "  this  won't 
do.  Here  are  John  and  Muriel  married.  Do  you  realize  that 
fact,  Emily  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  she  answered,  bounding  up,  and  rushing  over 
to  the  lovers  to  pour  out  the  joy  of  her  heart  upon 
them. 

Mrs.  Eastman  and  Wentworth  followed,  and  in  a  moment 
the  room  rang  with  gay  talk  and  frolic  hilarity. 

"  And  just  take  notice,"  cried  Wentworth,  amidst  the  afflu 
ent  fun,  "  take  notice  that  Harrington  has  his  wish.  He  was 
wishing,  Muriel,  or  rather  in  a  little  discussion  we  had  as  to 
the  proper  mode  of  doing  the  marriage  ceremony  up  golden 
brown,  he  was  observing  that  to  be  married  in  this  room,  just 
as  he  is,  with  never  a  ghost  of  a  kid  glove  on  him,  or  any 
wedding  embellishments,  and  nobody  present  but  us,  would  be 
the  height  of  his  ambition.  So  you  see,  his  Spartan  soul  is 
gratified  1" 

"  So  it  is  !"  laughed  Harrington.  "  I  had  forgotten  it 
amidst  the  excitement;  but  that  is  what  I  said,  and  you,  dear 
fairy  princess,  have  gratified  me." 

"  Hold  on  now,"  burst  in  the  mercurial  Wentworth,  inter 
rupting  Muriel  in  the  gay  reply  she  was  about  to  make. 
"  Hold  on  !  An  idea  strikes  me.  To  wit,  .that  nobody  has 
called  this  lady  by  her  new  name.  Sweet  Muriel  Eastman, 
vale,  vale,  vale.  Adieu  forevermore  !  Vanish,  flower  of 
spinsters,  vanish  into  the  fragrant  twilight  of  memory.  Mrs. 
Harrington,  appear  !  All  hail,  Mrs.  Harrington  !" 

"  Bravo  !"  exclaimed  Emily,  clapping  her  hands,  and  undu 
lating  backward  into  a  low  curtsey.  "  All  hail,  Mrs.  Har 
rington  !" 

Muriel,  still  clasping  her  husband,  looked  at  them  in  their 
mirth  with  a  pensive  smile. 

"  I  had  forgotten  it,"  she  said  gently,  and  almost  dream 
fully,  "for  I  feel  like  Muriel  Eastman,  still,  with  unmerged 
individuality." 


HARRINGTON.  375 

"  And  Muriel  Eastman  you  shall  be,"  laughingly  said  Har 
rington;  "  and  with  unraerged  individuality,  too." 

"  Nay,"  said  Muriel,  with  tender  gaiety.  "  My  new,  sweet 
name,  John — Muriel  Harrington.  I  accept  it.  At  least  to 
the  world  I  will  be  Muriel  Harrington,  and  you  shall  think  of 
me,  and  call  me  Muriel  Eastman,  still." 

"  As  I  will  ever,"  responded  Harrington. 

"  Bravo  !"  cried  Wentworth.  "  An  amicable  adjustment  of 
a  serious  difficulty.  And  now,  what  next  ?" 

"Next,  music,"  laughingly  said  Emily,  moving  to  the 
organ. 

Her  rich  contralto  voice  rose  with  the  instrumental  surge 
into  a  trumpet  pasan,  and  so,  amidst  music  and  laughter,  and 
many-colored  festal  talk,  the  golden  banquet  of  the  day  passed 
by,  and  as  they  stood  together  at  the  single  western  window 
of  the  library,  the  evening  overspread  them  with  a  sky  of 
deepest  azure,  filled  with  vast  clouds  of  purple  and  amber 
flame,  like  the  wings  of  seraphim. 

Slowly  the  burning  magnificence  of  the  celestial  pageant 
faded  from  the  sky,  and  the  enchanted  twilight  came  with  soft 
and  odorous  southwind  breathings.  All  the  long  evening,  in 
the  dim  bloom  of  moonlight,  too  faint  to  veil  the  brightness 
of  the  stars,  the  long  wafts  of  balmy  odor  hung  swaying  with 
the  airy  poise  of  spirits  around  the  dwelling,  rising  in  low 
whisperings,  and  slowly  swooning  away  in  sweetness.  Gradu 
ally  the  sounds  of  life  died  away,  the  moon  sank  low,  the 
shadows  slept  within  the  street,  and  the  silence  was  unbroken 
save  by  the  passionate  whispers  of  the  fragrant  wind.  Far 
above  the  dark  roofs,  the  bright  stars  were  throbbing  in  the 
divine  blue  gloom,  and  over  the  vast  night  brooded  the  infinite 
presence  of  the  triune  Love  and  Life  and  Joy. 


376  HAEKINGTON. 


CHAPTER  XXY. 

WITHERLEE. 

THE  next  day  the  announcement  of  the  marriage  appeared  in 
the  newspapers,  and  falling  soft  as  a  rose-leaf  on  the  tail  of  that 
great  Chicken  Little,  Society,  Society  ran  round  clucking  as  if 
the  sky  had  fallen.  Great  was  the  sensation — especially  among 
the  score  or  so  of  loyers  who  for  a  long  time  had  been  vainly 
endeavoring  to  get  sufficiently  intimate  with  Muriel  to  make 
their  love  manifest,  and  whose  fate  was  now  sealed. 

Not  having  been  invited  to  the  wedding,  Society  expected 
the  cards  to  arrive  inviting  it  to  the  conventional  reception. 
But  Society  hearing  presently,  through  some  intimate  friends 
of  the  family,  that  Muriel  and  her  husband  had  decided  to  dis 
pense  with  conventionalities,  took  it  kindly,  as  just  what  might 
have  been  expected  of  that  lady,  and  began  to  pour  in  a  stream 
of  congratulatory  callers  at  the  house  in  Temple  street.  Among 
the  callers,  the  startled  and  enraged  Atkinses  were  missing, 
which  was  melancholy.  Amidst  the  family  wrath,  Horatio 
kept  contemptuously  cool,  remarking,  like  the  fine  young 
American  he  was,  that  a  social  mesalliance  always  brought  its 
own  punishment,  as  she  (Muriel)  would  find  to  her  sorrow  ; 
while  Thomas,  on  all  occasions,  when  the  subject  of  the  mar 
riage  came  up  in  conversation,  observed,  that  that's  what  comes 
of  letting  girls  have  too  much  head,  be  Jove  ! 

Great  was  the  sensation  the  next  morning  when  Muriel  and 
Harrington  appeared  at  Captain  Fisher's,  announcing  their 
espousals,  and  great  was  the  joy,  and  immense  the  satisfaction. 

Greater  than  all  or  anything  was  the  large  and  lustrous  hap 
piness  of  the  wedded  lovers.  The  deep  change  that  had  come 
upon  their  lives  gave  them  a  new  and  statelier  beauty.  So 
might  have  looked  the  beautiful  and  tall  Sir  Walter,  and  so 


HARRINGTON.  377 

the  fair  Elizabeth  Throgmorton,  his  bright  Elizabethan  flower 
of  wifely  womanhood,  in  their  happiest  hour  of  wedded  love. 

At  home  in  Temple  street  the  day  after  their  wedding,  in  the 
new  and  fresh  enjoyment  of  a.  marriage  whose  perfect  nobleness 
might  have  gladdened  the  pure  soul  of  Swedenborg,  they  laid 
their  little  plans  for  the  future.  It  was  first  agreed  that  Har 
rington  should  permit  himself  a  vacation,  free  from  the  toil  of 
study,  in  this  the  golden  crescent  of  their  eternal  honeymoon. 
It  was  next  resolved  that  Harrington  should  keep  his  house  in 
Chambers  street,  and  live  there  when  he  so  chose.  Both  he 
and  Muriel  thought  that  married  people  are  too  intimate  with 
each  other,  see  too  much  of  each  other,  push  too  far  and  fre 
quently  into  the  sacred  privacy  which  Nature  sets  around  the 
individual  soul,  and  so  lose  the  charm  of  freshness  which  is  at  once 
the  crowning  delight  and  most  potent  safeguard  of  love.  If,  in 
married  life,  they  thought,  familiarity  does  not  breed  contempt,  it 
commonly  breeds  a  sort  of  humdrum  unappreciating  indifference 
which  makes  the  wedded  lovers  seem  less  beautiful  and  noble  to 
each  other  than  in  the  matin  prime  of  their  early  passion.  And  as 
Muriel  and  Harrington  designed  to  be  lovers  forevermore,  they 
resolved  to  maintain  the  relations  which  make  love  ever  magical 
and  ever  new.  Counting  himself  fortunate,  therefore,  that  he  had 
a  house  of  his  own  to  retire  to  in-  those  golden-valleyed  intervals 
which  Nature  prescribes  to  checquer  and  enhance  the  tender 
and  holy  beauty  of  the  mountain  land  of  love,  and  sadly  wishing 
that  his  fortune  might  be  shared  by  all,  as  it  might  in  a  nobler 
order  of  society,  Harrington  agreed  with  Muriel,  and  she  with 
him,  to  use  their  new  freedom  of  intercourse  wisely,  he  spend 
ing  his  studious  days  as  heretofore  in  his  own  house,  she  passing 
her  happy,  life  as  in  her  maidenhood  in  hers,  both  coming 
together  whenever  their  souls  drew,  or  their  duties  bade,  freely, 
attractively,  in  mutual  ministration  and  communion,  living  for 
each  other  and  for  the  world's  great  family  of  souls. 

The  next  thing  that  came  under  discussion  was  a  proposition 
from  Muriel  to  settle  half  her  fortune  on  her  husband,  which 
Harrington  would  not  listen  to  on  any  condition.  It  was 
finally  compromised,  amidst  much  gaiety,  by  his  agreeing  to 
let  no  want  of  his  go  untold,  and  to  always  accept  from  her 


378  HARRINGTON. 

whatever  money  he  needed,  instead  of  interrupting  his  studies 
with  compositions  to  supply  his  deficiencies.  Which  bargain 
Muriel  closed  with  a  frolic  threat  of  banishment  from  her 
presence  if  she  ever  discovered  him  infringing  the  terms  of  the 
compact,  until  he  made  atonement  by  accepting  a  double  sum 
for  his  disobedience. 

Other  matters  talked  of,  and  the  business  conference  ended, 
they  were  sitting  together  in  the  library,  when  Wentworth 
arrived,  handsome  as  usual,  and  full  of  gay  greetings.  Pre 
sently  Emily  came  in  from  a  shopping  excursion,  and  sat  with 
them. 

"  And  why  is  Raffaello  out  of  his  studio  this  morning  ?"  she 
said,  in  a  gay  tone,  to  Wentworth. 

"  Well/1  he  returned,  "  fact  is,  I  couldn't  paint  for  think 
ing  of  our  recent  blind-man's  buff  game.  Now,  look  here, 
friends,  let's  have  a  grand  confession.  Here  we  are  together, 
and  what  I  want  to  know  is  this  :  How  is  it  that  we  four 
people,  of  tolerably  good  wits,  contrived  in  our  love  affairs  to 
be  so  mistaken  in  regard  to  each  other  ?  Grant  Witherlee's 
share  in  the  matter,  and  our  own  duplicity — that  is,  yours  and 
mine,  Emily  dear — but  after  all,  is  it  not  singular  that  we 
didn't  see  through  it  ?" 

They  sat  pensively  smiling,  with  their  eyes  bent  upon  the 
floor,  while  he,  smiling  also,  with  his  brilliant  teeth  displayed, 
looked  at  them. 

"  Just  think,"  he  continued.  "  Just  think  of  the  slightness 
of  the  evidence  which  set  every  Jack  of  us  against  his  true  Jill, 
and  every  Jill  against  her  true  Jack.  Such  evidence  wouldn't 
have  misled  us  if  any  other  matter  but  love  was  involved. 
How  is  this  ?  Now,  Emily,  perhaps  it's  not  wonderful  that 
you  should  have  thought  that  I  loved  Muriel,  for  who  wouldn't 
love  her  ?  but  how  could  you  for  a  moment  imagine  that  she 
— so  manifestly  my  superior  every  way,  so  evidently  made  for 
a  nobler  man  than  I  am — could  possibly  love  me  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  naively  replied  Emily,  while  Muriel  and 
Harrington,  coloring  at  the  compliment  Wentworth  so  frankly 
paid  them,  laughed  amusedly.  "  It  was  very  foolish  in  me, 
I'm  sure,  and  it  seems  like  a  strange  dream." 


HARRINGTON.  379 

"  Good,"  continued  Wentworth.  "  The  next  question  is, 
how  could  I  imagine  that  Harrington,  with  his  heaven-fated 
wife  before  his  eyes,  could  possibly  love  my  Emily  ?  And  that 
I  don't  know  either,  and  can't  explain,  except  on  the  theory 
that  I'm  a  complete  fool,  which  I'm  not." 

They  all  laughed  merrily,  Wentworth  louder  than  any. 

"  And  you,  Muriel,"  he  pursued.  "  How  could  you  imagine 
for  a  moment  that  Harrington  loved  anybody  but  you  ?  Both 
of  you  in  constant  communion,  in  the  fullest,  and  broadest,  and 
closest  sympathy  with  each  other,  how  could  you  think  that 
he  loved  Emily  better  than  you  ?" 

"  Why,  Richard,"  returned  Muriel,  with  bewitching  gaiety, 
"  since  this  is  the  hour  of  confession,  let  me  confess  that  I  don't 
know." 

Wentworth  laughed  uproariously,  and  the  rest  joined  him  in 
his  mirth. 

"  Well,  Harrington,"  he  continued,  in  a  minute,  "  you  now. 
It's  not  singular,  of  course,  that  you  should  have,  thought  I 
loved  Muriel  ;  but  in  the  name  of  all  the  gods  at  once,  how 
could  you  think  that  she  loved  me  ?  Where  was  your  insight, 
Harrington  ?" 

"  Well,  Richard,"  said  Harrington,  jocosely,  "  this  whole 
matter  may  be  solved  on  the  theory  that  we  are  not  the  wisest 
people  in  the  world." 

"  No,  John,  that  won't  do,"  returned  Weutworth,  "  we're 
not  the  wisest,  but  we're  wise  enough  not  to  be  made  fools  of 
in  anything  but  a  love  affair." 

"  Well  then,  let  us  concede  our  wisdom,"  replied  Harring 
ton,  in  the  same  jocose  vein,  "  and  solve  the  whole  riddle  with 
that  deep  maxim  of  my  beloved  Verulam,  '  Love  is  the  folly 
of  the  wise.' " 

"  Good  !  I  rest  there,"  said  Wentworth,  laughing.  "  Yes, 
my  Lord  Bacon,  you're  right,  love  is  the  folly  of  the  wise." 

"  But  it  is  the  highest  wisdom,  too,"  observed  Muriel. 

"  Of  course,"  replied  Harrington.  "  Verularn  would  be  the 
last  to  gainsay  that.  I  understand  him  to  only  mean  that  the 
mortal  reason  most  exempt  from  the  clouds  of  the  other  pas 
sions,  is  subject  to  the  obscurations  of  this.  It  is  one  side  of 


380  HAEEINGTON. 

his  tribute  to  the  potency  of  love,  and  all  human  experience 
justifies  it.     Particularly  ours,"  he  jestingly  added. 

At  this  moment  a  tap  was  heard  at  the  library  door.  It 
was  Patrick,  who,  all  in  smiles  for  the  new-married  couple, 
announced  that  Mr.  Witherlee  was  in  the  parlor  below. 

"  Jupiter  I"  exclaimed  Wentworth.  "  Let's  have  him  up 
here,  and  give  him  a  rowing." 

"  Yes,  do,"  said  Emily  nervously.  "  Let's  hear  what  he  has 
to  say  for  himself." 

Muriel  looked  dubiously  at  Harrington. 
"  I  really  think,"  said  Harrington,  in  answer  to  her  look, 
"  that  Fernando  ought  to  have  a  lesson  on  the  danger  and 
folly  of  such  detraction  and  mischief-making  as  he  practises. 
It  would  be  salutary." 

"  Well  then — but,  Richard,  you  must  promise  me  that  you 
won't  get  angry  at  Mr.  Witherlee — that  you'll  talk  to  him 
calmly,"  said  Muriel. 

"  Oh,  indeed  I  will  !"  declared  Wentworth,  rubbing  his 
hands  gleefully,  and  all  alive  with  eagerness.  "  Only  have 
him  up  here.  I  promise  sacredly  that  I'll  be  as  gentle  as  a 
sucking  dove." 

"And  you,  Emily,  you  must  engage  to  be  calm,"  said 
Muriel. 

"Oh,  I'll  be  calm.  I  despise  him  too  much  to  be  anything 
but  calm,"  returned  Emily  with  an  air  of  indolent  scorn. 

"  Yery  well.  Patrick,  show  Mr.  Witherlee  up  here,"  said 
Muriel. 

Patrick  bowed,  and  departed. 

"  Now  for  a  scene  !"  cried  the  gleeful  Wentworth.  "  His 
impudence  won't  get  him  out  of  this  scrape." 

"  Take  care,  Richard,"  remarked  Harrington,  "  for  in  my 
opinion  you'll  find  it  difficult  to  convict  him  of  any  misconduct." 
"  We'll  see  !"  exclaimed  Wentworth  with  a  confident  air. 
Presently  the  door  opened,  and  the  good  Fernando  came  in, 
bowing  low  with  an  almost  cringe  in  his  courtesy,  and  smiling 
with  his  usual  constrained  smile  of  elegance.     He  was  very 
fashionably  dressed,  and  looked,  as  he  commonly  did,  hand 
some. 


HAKBINGTON.  381 

"  Good  morning/7  he  said  with  courteous  empressement,  as  he 
came  bowing  forward.  "  All  together,  as  usual." 

"  Yes,  all  together/'  said  Harrington,  good-naturedly,  giving 
him  his  hand  as  he  spoke,  and  taking  no  notice  of  the  covert 
sneer  which  lurked  rather  in  the  tone  of  his  last  remark  than 
in  the  words. 

Muriel  also  gave  him  her  hand,  Wentworth  his  rather  dis 
tantly,  though  he  smiled,  and  Emily  bent  her  head  with  a 
sumptuous  negative  politeness,  without  rising  from  her  chair. 

In  a  minute  or  so,  the  good  Fernando  was  seated,  and  gaz 
ing  at  them  with  opaque  glittering  eyes  which  restlessly  flick 
ered  and  seemed  not  so  much  to  look  at  them,  as  toward  them. 
He  began  to  feel,  magnetically,  that  there  was  something  mys 
terious  and  menacing  in  their  manner,  and  his  plump,  colorless, 
morbid  face  grew  marble-cool  and  immobile,  with  the  lips  a 
little  parted  and  rigid,  as  the  lips  usually  are  when  there  is  an 
attempt  at  the  concealment  of  emotion  or  purpose. 

"  Well,  Fernando,  have  you  heard  the  news/'  said  Went 
worth,  alluding  to  Harrington  and  Muriel's  marriage. 

"  No,"  drawled  Witherlee,  with  a  face  discharged  of  all 
expression.  "  What  is  it  ?" 

"  Haven't  you  seen  the  papers  this  morning  ?"  said  Went 
worth. 

"  No  ;  I  rose  rather  late  this  morning,"  was  the  equable 
answer,  "  and  didn't  breakfast  at  home.  I  went  down  to 
Parker's  and  had  a  lunch  with  a  bottle  6f»  Sotairne,  and 
it  never  occurred  to  me  to  glance  at  the  paper.  What  is  the 
news  ?"  t. 

Wentworth  parsed  a  moment,  conscious  that  Witherlee  had 
not  heard  of  the  marriage,  and  filled  with  an  amused  disgust, 
especially  at  the  affected  drawl  with  which  the  young 
fop  had  pronounced  the  word  Sauterne,  and  generally  at  his 
ostentatious  and  unnecessary  mention  of  his  epicurean  break 
fast. 

"  The  news  is,"  replied  Wentworth,  changing  his  intention, 
"  that  Emily  and  I  are  engaged  to  be  married  in  October." 

Witherlee  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  with  his  eyes  more 
opaque,  his  lips  more  rigid,  his  face  more  expressionless  than 


382  HARRINGTON. 

before,  and  slightly  lifted  his  handsome  eyebrows  ;  then  smiled 
with  immense  cordiality. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  he  exclaimed,  with  tender 
empressement,  "very  glad  indeed.  But  you  surprise  me. 
I  hadn't  the  remotest  idea  that  such  a  thing  would  hap 


pen  " 

"  And  you  didn't  mean  it  should,  if  you  could  help  it," 
interrupted  Emily,  with  bland  tranquillity.  • 

Witherlee  looked  at  her  with  an  astonishment  so  admirably 
counterfeited,  that  she  almost  thought  it  genuine,  and  her 
heart  faltered  in  its  purpose.  Wentworth,  with  a  strong  dis 
position  to  laugh,  bit  his  lip,  and  looked  at  the  floor.  Muriel 
wore  an  air  of  sunny  laziness,  and  Harrington,  sitting  a  little 
apart,  kept  his  searching  blue  eyes  fixed  intently  on  Witherlee's 
countenance,  unnoticed  by  him. 

"  Why,  Emily,"  said  Fernando,  slowly,  after  a  long  pause, 
"  what  do  you  mean  !  If  I  could  help  it  ?  Why  how  could  I 
hinder  it,  even  if  I  wished  to  ?  How  could  I  be  supposed  to 
know  anything  about  it  ?" 

"  You  knew  Richard  and  I  loved  each  other,"  stam 
mered  Emily,  losing  her  self-possession  as  she  thought  how 
intangible  was  all  her  evidence  against  her  colloquist.  "  You 
knew  it,  and  you  tried  to  prejudice  me  against  him." 

"  I  knew  it  ?"  repeated  Fernando.  "  Miss  Ames,  you  must 
pardon  me  for  saying  it — but  you  are  very  unjust  to  me." 
And  he  assumed  an  injured  air,  which  was  really  touching. 
"  It  is  utterly  impossible  that  I  could  have  known  it,  for  neither 
you  nor  Wentworth,  not  anybody,  ever  told  me.  As  for  pre 
judicing  him,  I  do  not  know  what  you  refer  to — but  if  you 
mean  our  conversation  one  evening  more  than  a  week  ago,  you 
must  permit  me  to  observe  that  that  is  only  a  proof  that  I 
knew  nothing  whatever  of  this  matter.  For  if  I  had,  is  it 
likely  that  I  would  be  so  foolish  as  to  injure  myself  in  your 
good  opinion  by  saying  anything  against  a  man  you  loved  ? 
Even  if  I  were  ungenerous  enough  to  do  so,  would  I  be  so 
unwise?  I  am  sorry,  very  sorry  that  you  can  think  so 
meanly  of  my  good  sense,  not  to  speak  of  anything  higher." 

He  said  it  all  so  mildly,  so  sadly,  with  such  an  injured 


HAKftlNGTON.  383 

air,  that  Emily  was  confounded,  and  felt  unable  to  deny  the 
apparent  justice  of  his  plausible  plea.  Yet  a  desperate  sense 
that  he  had  tampered  with  her  feelings,  and  maligned  her 
lover,  still  lingered  in  her  mind. 

"  It  may  be  as  you  say,  Fernando,"  she  faltered,  "  but  at 
any  rate,  you  know  that  you  made  remarks  affecting  Richard's 
character,  which  could  not  but  make  me  think  hardly  of  him." 

"  What  did  I  say  ?"  inquired  Fernando,  lifting  his  eyebrows 
in  utter  astonishment. 

Emily,  at  that  moment,  could  not  for  the  life  of  her  recall 
a  single  disparaging  sentence.  All  the  delicate  poisoned 
phrases  which  had  interspersed  his  lavish  praise  of  Wcntworth, 
were  as  invisible  to  the  eye  of  her  mind,  as  would  be  the  deadly 
fragrance  of  some  exquisite  poisonous  flower. 

"  Did  I  not  speak  of  Mr.  Wentworth  in  the  warmest  terms  ?" 
he  demanded.  "Did  I  not  pay  the  warmest  tributes  to  his 
character  and  talents  ?" 

"  I  admit  that  you  did,"  replied  Emily,  painfully  coloring  ; 
"  but  you,  nevertheless,  contrived  to  throw  a  shadow  on  his 
constancy  and  purity  as  a  lover,  and  what  could  have  been 
worse  to  me  who  loved  him  ?" 

"  I  contrived  !"  exclaimed  Fernando,  lifting  his  head  with 
an  air  of  proud  and  disdainful  injured  innocence,  which  Har 
rington  and  Muriel  alone  saw  was  theatrically  assumed  and 
overdone.  "  I  contrived  !  Miss  Ames,  I  might  answer  this 
charge  with  simple  silence,  and  conscious  of  its  untruth,  might 
bear  it  as  a  gentlemen  should  bear  all  injuries,  with  forgiveness 
But,  since  you  were  so  unfortunate  as  to  receive  a  wrong  im 
pression  from  remarks  which  were  made  only  in  candor,  and 
which  were  not  intended  to  injure  any  one,  let  me  say  this  : 
Did  you  not  yourself  ask  me  to  tell  you  candidly  what  I  thought 
of  Mr.  Wentworth  ?" 

"  I  own  I  did,"  replied  poor  Emily,  wishing  she  had  not  said 
a  word,  and  sorry  that  she  had  so  rashly  blamed  the  good 
Fernando  for  what  was,  she  thought,  her  own  fault  after  all. 

"  And  when  you  asked  me  that,  in  the  mutual  confidence  of 
friendship,"  pursued  Witherlee,  "  can  you  blame  me  for  having 
answered  you  with  the  candor  you  requested  ?" 


384  HARRINGTON. 

Emily,  with  the  tears  very  near  her  eyes,  and  her  face  glow 
ing,  was  silent. 

"  If  I  had  imagined  what  your  feelings  for  Mr.  Went  worth 
were,"  continued  Witherlee,  with  touching  mildness,  "  I  would 
never  have  uttered  anything  but  praise  of  him,  though  you 
asked  it  ever  so  much.  But  I  never  even  suspected  that.  As 
for  throwing  a  shadow  on  Mr.  Wentworth's  constancy,  I  never 
did  it.  I  smiply  said,  believing  it  to  be  true,  and  Pm  very 
sorry  if  it's  not  true,  that  he  had  had  a  great  many  love  affairs, 
and  fell  in  love  easily,  and  got  out  of  it  lightly,  and  so  forth  ; 
but  I'm  sure  that's  nothing  uncommon  with  a  handsome  young 
man  whom  all  the  young  ladies  are  after,  and  no  blame  to  any 
body." 

Wentworfh  colored  up  to  the  roots  of  his  hair  at  the  lat 
ter  part  of  this  .speech,  which  the  good  Fernando  delivered 
with  a  nonchalant,  jocose  air,  very  different  from  the  wicked 
significance  of  manner  with  which,  in  speaking  the  words  he 
avowed,  and  others  of  the  same  nature,  he  had  given  Emily 
to  understand  that  her  lover  was  a  gay  Lothario. 

"You're  mistaken,  Fernando,"  stammered  Wentworth,  "if 
you  think  I  ever  fell  seriously  in  love  with  any  woman,  and 
outlived  it.  I've  had  my  fancy  touched  by  a  number  of  pretty 
girls,  it  is  true,  and  I've  been  uncommonly  amiable  to  them, 
no  doubt,  but  they  always  disappointed  me  when  I  came  to 
know  them  a  little,  and  there  never  was  any  heart-injury  done 
anywhere." 

"  I  never  supposed  or  said  there  was,"  replied  Fernando, 
coolly.  "It  is  Emily's  misfortune  to  have  exaggerated  the 
simple  meaning  of  what  I  did  say,  and  what  you,  Richard, 
have  confirmed.  As  for  throwing  any  suspicion  on  Went 
worth's  moral  character,  Emily,  I  do  not  know  what  you  can 
mean,  and  I  must  ask  you  to  explain,  for  this  is  the  most 
serious  part  of  the  whole  misapprehension." 

"  You  made  no  charge  of  that  nature  against  Richard," 
said  Emily  terribly  embarrassed,  "but  you  told  me  of  that 
young  lady's  betrayal — I  forget  her  name — by  young  Whit- 
tern  ore,  and  dwelt  on  the  insidiousness  of  his  addresses  to 
women  in  such  a  way,  that  I  thought  you  were  thinking  of 


HARRINGTON.  *  385 

Richard,  or  withholding  something  similar  you  knew  of  him, 
and — Oh,  I  have  acted  like  a  fool  1"  she  passionately  ex 
claimed,  dashing  away  the  tears  which  sprang  to  her  eyes. 

Witherlee  saw  his  triumph  with  an  exulting  heart,  while  his 
face  was,  save  for  a  little  dejection,  perfectly  immobile. 

"  I  am  very,  very  sorry,"  he  remarked  in  a  slow,  kind 
voice.  "  It  is  unaccountable  to  me  that  you  should  connect 
my  narration,  which  was  simply  true,  with  Mr.  Went  worth. 
I  never  heard  of  anything  so  singular." 

"  Let  it  go,  Fernando,"  said  Emily,  "  and  do  forgive  " 

"  What  is  the  young  lady's  name  of  whom  you  speak  in 
connection  with  Mr.  Whittemore,  Fernando?"  interrupted 
Muriel,  with  an  air  of  phlegm  which  she  had  caught  from  Har 
rington,  who  occasionally  wore  it.  Muriel  put  the  question,  at 
once  because  she  wanted  to  know,  and  because  she  was 
anxious  to  save  Emily  from  the  disgrace  of  asking  Witherlee's 
forgiveness,  when,  as  she  saw,  he  had  only  adroitly  juggled 
away  his  subtle  slanders. 

"  Why  it's  Susan  Hollingsworth,"  returned  Witherlee,  "  you 
know  her." 

"That  pretty  Susan  Hollingsworth!"  exclaimed  Muriel. 
"  To  be  sure  I  know  her.  But  I  hadn't  heard  of  this.  How 
strange  that  I  had  not !" 

"It  is,  certainly,"  replied  Witherlee,  lifting  his  eyebrows, 
"  for  it's  town  talk,  and  Miss  Hollingsworth's  position  in  so 
ciety  is  perfectly  ruined.  She's  taboo  forever.  I  was  at  a 
party  last  night  at  Mrs.  Binghampton's  and  you  should  have 
heard  the  way  the  ladies  cut  her  up.  It  was  a  treat  to  hear 
it" — and  Witherlee  laughed  with  his  turtle-husky  chuckle. 
"  That  young  Mr.  Mill  undertook  to  defend  her,  and  it  was 
perfectly  ludicrous  to  see  the  scrape  he  got  himself  into. 
Miss  Bean  wanted  to  know  instantly  if  he  was  going  to  come 
out  in  favor  of  Mormonism,  and  Mill  was  completely  dumb- 
foundered,  and  covered  with  disgrace  in  a  moment."  And 
again  Witherlee  laughed  with  his  turtle-husky  chuckle. 

"  Have  you  seen  Susan  lately  ?"  asked  Muriel,  abstractedly, 
with  a  face  of  sadness. 

"  No,  I  haven't  called  there  since  I  heard  of  this  affair," 
17 


386  HARRINGTON. 

replied  Witherlee  with  a  sort  of  stolid  importance.  "The 
Hollingsworths  have  been  sent  to  Coventry,  and  no  decent 
person  visits  them." 

Muriel  colored,  but  very  slightly,  and  only  for  a  moment. 

"  I  shall  visit  them,"  she  said,  quietly,  "  and  I  would  have 

visited  them  before  if  I  had  heard  of  this.     What  is  more, 

Susan  is  as  good  a  girl  as  ever  breathed,  and  I  shall  make  it  a 

point  to  invite  her  to  come  and  spend  a  month  at  my  house." 

Witherlee  looked  perfectly  immobile,  but  secretly  stung  by 
the  rebuke  Muriel's  words  conveyed  to  him,  he  felt  the  neces 
sity  of  defending  his  attitude  toward  the  Hollingsworths. 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  still  visit  Miss  Hollingsworth,  if  I 
could  conscientiously,"  he  said,  with  an  air  of  cold  and  lofty 
virtue.  "  But  when  a  young  lady  lets  herself  be  led  astray 
by  an  ignis  fatuus  light,  from  the  paths  of  Christian  mo 
rality  " 

The  generous  color  flashed  to  the  calm  face  of  Muriel,  and 
her  golden  eyes  glowed  on  him  so  suddenly  that  he  stopped  in 
the  middle  of  his  sentence. 

"  Fernando  Witherlee,"  said  she,  in  a  slow  and  steady  voice, 
and  with  a  dignity  that  abashed  even  him,  "  if  there  is  any 
thing  that  could  make  me  despise  a  fellow-creature,  it  would 
be  such  a  speech  as  you  have  just  made.  Ignis  fatuus  light  ! 
I  answer  you  with  Robert  Burns,  and  I  accept  it  in  a  pro- 
founder  sense  than  he  did,  that  even  the  light  that  leads  astray 
is  light  from  Heaven.  Christian  morality  !  Who  was  the 
friend  even  of  the  Magdalen  ? — who  was  the  friend  and  com 
panion  of  publicans  and  sinners — the  taboo  men  and  women 
of  old  Jerusalem  ?  Oh,  shame  upon  you  !  A  poor  girl 
loving  with  the  whole  fervor  of  the  sacred  nature  God  gave 
her,  guilty,  at  the  most,  only  of  a  too  absolute  confidence  in 
the  traitor  she  had  cast  her  heart  upon,  deceived  now  and 
abandoned,  and  suffering  not  only  from  her  own  private 
anguish,  the  greatest  a  human  heart  can  know,  but  from  the 
insolent  and  infamous  scorn  of  society — and  it  is  at  such  a 
time  that  you  can  have  the  soul  to  avoid  her  !  And  worse — 
you  can  tell  the  cruel  treatment  she  receives  from  her  sex.  and 
laugh.  Those  graceless  women — but  I  may  well  spare  my 


HAEEINGTON.  387 

indignation  at  the  inhuman  way  women  treat  any  of  their  num 
ber  who  have  fallen  from  what  they  call  virtue.  Shut  out  by 
the  impudent  assumptions  of  mankind  from  public  life — shut 
out  from  that  experience  which  widens  the  understanding,  and 
thus,  as  the  statesman  said,  corrects  the  heart — theirs  may 
well  be  twilight  judgments  I  Well  may  they  have  constricted 
minds  and  narrow  souls,  with  life's  best  culture  denied  them  I 
Treated  as  vassals,  theirs  are  vassals'  vices.  But  you — a 
man !  And  society !  Society  whose  mutual  voice  should 
peal  consolation  and  encouragement  to  this  poor  forlorn  one, 
howling  her  off  into  social  exile,  and,  were  she  poor,  to  a  life 
of  shame — howling  her  self-respect,  her  very  womanhood  out 
of  her.  Oh,  what  can  I  say  of  such  a  society  !  No  matter. 
You  can  do  as  you  think  best ;  but  I,  for  one,  will  never  taboo 
Susan  Hollingsworth,  and  she  shall  visit  me  if  I  can  persuade 
her" 

Wincing  secretly  under  this  rebuke,  which  Muriel  uttered 
calmly,  but  with  impressive  energy,  Witherlee  sat  in  silence, 
with  his  opaque  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy,  and  his  handsome  eye 
brows  lifted  very  high.  Harrington,  without  taking  his  gaze 
from  him,  expressed  his  gratification  at  what  Muriel  had  said 
by  laying  his  large  hand  over  hers,  as  it  rested  on  the  arm  of 
her  chair.  Emily  sat  with  a  dazed  look,  and  her  lover  was 
biting  his  lip  all  through  the  episode,  to  suppress  any  signs  of 
the  satisfaction  he  felt  at  Witherlee's  discomfiture. 

"  My  sentiments  exactly,  Muriel,"  said  Weutworth.  "  But 
now,  Fernando,  to  resume.  You  appear  to  have  cleared 
yourself  of  any  blame  in  the  construction  Emily  put  upon  your 
words,  and  so  far  so  good.  But  there  are  some  other  things 
I  want  to  talk  with  you  about." 

"  Proceed,"  said  Witherlee,  coolly.  "  Though  I  really 
think  Emily  ought  to  be  permitted  to  make  the  apologies  she 
was  about  to  make  to  me  for  so  grievous  an  injury  to  my 
feelings  as  I  have  sustained." 

It  is  utterly  impossible  to  describe  the  exquisite  titillation 
of  insult  which,  despite  his  subdued  manner,  these  words  of 
Witherlee  conveyed.  Wentworth  reddened  like  fire  instantly, 
and  was  only  checked  in  a  tremendous  retort  by  a  glance  from 


388  HARRINGTON. 

the  quiet  eye  of  Muriel.  But  poor  Emily,  filled  with  contri 
tion,  started  and  colored,  and  was  about  to  pour  forth  a  pro 
fuse  apology,  when — 

"  Pardon  me,  Fernando,"  broke  in  the  calm,  deep  voice  of 
Harrington,  "  but  let  ine  suggest  that  Miss  Ames'  apologies 
will  be  in  better  place  when  you  are  entirely  clear  from  the 
accusations  connected  with  her,  which  Wentworth  has  to 
bring  against  you." 

Witherlee  turned  very  pale,  though  he  showed  no  other 
signs  of  emotion,  and  fixed  his  impassible  eyes  on  Harrington's, 
but  unable,  with  all  his  stone  opacity  of  outlook,  to  sustain 
their  broad  blue  gaze,  he  carelessly  lifted  his  eyebrows  and 
looked  away.  Emily,  meanwhile,  having  noticed  Harrington's 
determined  face,  suddenly  felt  a  suspicion  that  all  was  not 
so  clear  with  Fernando  as  it  seemed,  and  resolved  to  say 
nothing  till  she  saw  the  end. 

"  What  I  have  to  say,  Fernando,  is  this,"  began  Went 
worth,  having  choked  down  his  rage  into  smiling  calm.  "  It 
seems  to  me  that  on  one  occasion,  at  least,  you  did  make  mis 
chief,  if  you'll  excuse  the  word,  between  Emily  and  me.  You 
said  something  that  prevented  Emily  from  giving  me  a  bunch 
of  violets  last  Tuesday  morning." 

"  I  did  not,"  returned  Witherlee,  coolly.  "  I  simply  made 
a  playful  remark  to  Emily — the  most  innocent  remark  imagi 
nable — which  I'm  perfectly  willing  to  repeat  now." 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  Wentworth,  "your  innocent  remark,  or 
the  manner  in  which  you  made  it,  incensed  Emily  against  me." 

"Am  I  to  blame  for  her  misapprehensions,  Richard?" 
mildly  asked  Fernando.  "  You  are  aware  now  that  Emily 
was  hi  an  unusually  sensitive  state  of  mind  at  that  tune.  You 
see  how  she  mistook  the  sense  of  other  things  I  said,  and  yet 
you  yourself  have  admitted  that  I  am  blameless  in  respect  to 
those.  Why,  then,  may  she  not  have  mistaken  the  sense  of 
the  playful  remark  I  made  about  the  flowers,  and  if  so,  why 
do  you  hold  me  to  an  account  for  it  ?" 

Wentworth  could  not  get  over  this.  He  was  fairly  checked 
in  the  very  outset.  The  devil  take  it,  he  said  to  himself,  I 
believe  that  Emily  and  I  have  been  to  blame  after  all  ! 


HARRINGTON.  389 

"  I  was  as  much  astonished  as  you  were,  Richard,  at 
Emily's  conduct  about  the  violets,"  continued  Eernando. 
"  But  I  never  imagined  till  this  moment,  that  she  was  influ 
enced  by  my  remark.  How  could  I  ?  I  thought  she  was 
rude  to  you,  and  I  felt  sorry.  You  must  remember  that  I 
expressed  my  friendly  regret  to  you  at  the  time.  Surely,  I 
wouldn't  have  done  that,  if  I  had  instigated  her  to  offend 
you." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Wentworth,  hastily,  "  I  pass  that.  I 
own  that  Emily  was  in  a  mood  to  misunderstand  things  ;  but 
see  here.  There  were  things  you  said  to  me  in  the  fencing- 
school  that  morning  which,  to  my  shame,  made  me  think 
unkindly  of  Harrington.  Now  n 

"  Pardon  me,  Richard,"  interrupted  Witherlee,  with  an  air 
of  great  concern,  "but  this  is  the  unkindest  thing  yet,  and  I 
do  not  understand  what  has  got  into  you  people's  minds  this 
morning.  Now,  what  in  the  world  did  I  ever  say  to  you 
against  Harrington  ?  Just  tell  me  candidly — were  not  you  at 
that  time  incensed  with  Harrington  for  something  or  other — I 
don't  know  what  ?" 

"  I  own  I  was,"  replied  Wentworth,  twirling  his  moustache 
and  blushing. 

"  Very  well.  And  did  I  ever  express  anything  more 
than  sympathy  with  you  in  your  irritation  ?"  demanded 
Witherlee. 

"Well,  I  admit,"  replied  Wentworth,  "that  what  you 
said  was  in  the  form  of  sympathy  with  me.  But  then  it  led 
me  to  think  more  hardly  of  Harrington  than  I  would  have 
done." 

Witherlee  laughed  as  if  his  throat  was  full  of  turtle  at 
this. 

"  You'll  excuse  me  for  laughing,  Wentworth,"  he  remarked, 
"  but  this  is  exceedingly  absurd.  Here  were  you  in  a  state  of 
nervous  resentment  at  Harrington,  and  because  your  fiery 
temper  took  my  kindly-meant  attempts  at  consolation  as  fresh 
fuel,  you  blame  me  1  Now  I  put  it  to  you,  as  a  reasonable 
man,  was  I  to  blame  because  you  wrong-headedly  twisted  my 
consolations  against  your  friend  ?" 


390  HARRINGTON. 

Wentworth  colored  deeply,  and  did  not  answer.  The  deuce 
take  it,  he  thought  :  I  am  making  myself  ridiculous  in  all 
this  :  the  fact  is,  I  was  in  such  a  miserably  jealous  and  irri 
table  state,  that,  as  he  says,  I  turned  everything  topsy 
turvy. 

"  Ah,  me  !"  sighed  Witherlee,  sadly  lifting  his  eyebrows, 
as  one  who  thus  expressed  that  this  was  the  fate  of  friend 
ship,  loyalty,  virtue  of  all  sorts,  in  this  wicked,  wicked,  wicked 
world. 

"  Well,  Fernando,"  said  Wentworth,  "  I'm  truly  sorry — but 
stay,  there's  another  thing,  and  that's  not  so  easily  explained. 
John  Todd  told  me  of  a  talk  you  had  with  Bagasse  that  same 
morning^  about  us  four." 

Wentworth  paused  to  look  at  Witherlee,  expecting  to  see 
him  start  and  change  color  at  this.  Nothing  of  the  sort. 
Witherlee's  eyebrows  were  up,  and  his  eyes  were  their  opaquest, 
and  his  face  was  perfectly  discharged  of  all  expression.  But 
in  his  soul  was  the  first  shock  of  alarm,  for  he  had  not  counted 
on  his  conversation  with  Bagasse  being  reported  to  Went 
worth. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  imperturbably,  "  what  did  John  Todd  say? 
You  will  first  allow  me  to  observe  that  it  is  not  very  credita 
ble  in  him  to  have  played  the  eavesdropper  on  a  private  con 
versation.  And  you  will  pardon  me  for  remarking,  Richard, 
that  had  I  been  in  your  place,  my  sense  of  honor  would  not 
have  permitted  me  to  listen  to  any  gossip  from  him." 

Wentworth  blushed  deeply.  Gallant,  honorable  fellow  that 
he  was,  he  half-mistrusted  that  he  had  not  done  right  in  letting 
John  Todd  make  his  report,  and  what  Witherlee  said,  cer 
tainly  seemed  in  the  most  punctilious  spirit  of  chivalry.  With 
erlee,  meanwhile,  satisfied  with  having  dealt  Wentworth's  case 
a  telling  blow  at  the  outset,  rested  in  injured  innocence,  ner 
vously  impatient  in  spirit  at  the  same  time,  to  have  the  worst 
over  with. 

"  I  won't  excuse  myself,  Fernando,"  said  Wentworth,  hur 
riedly.  "  But  here  is  what  the  boy  told  me.  In  the  first 
place,  you  mentioned  the  names  of  these  two  ladies  to  Bagasse. 
Now,  that  was  not  decorous  " 


HAEEINGTON.  391 

"  Why  not  ?"  demanded  Witherlee.  "  Just  consider  that 
what  I  said  to  Bagasse  was  in  the  confidence  of  familiar 
friendship,  and  the  proof  is,  that  Bagasse  himself  never  spread 
it  abroad — only  that  sneak  of  a  boy." 

"  Familiar  friendship  with  Bagasse  1"  exclaimed  Wentworth, 
amazed.  "  I  did  not  imagine  yon  would  be  so  intimate  with 
the  old  fellow." 

"  And  why  not  ?"  demanded  Witherlee,  with  an  air  of  noble 
disdain.  "  A  gallant  old  soldier  of  the  Empire — a  brave  old 
Frenchman,  who  wears  the  cross  of  the  Legion  !  Do  you 
think  I'm  such  a  snob  as  to  shun  his  friendship  because  he's 
poor  and  plebeian,  and  all  that  ?  Indeed,  no  !  Bagasse  and 
I,"  he  added,  lying  desperately,  "  are  on  very  intimate  terms, 
and  I  therefore  felt  justified  in  talking  freely  to  him — which  I 
wouldn't  have  done  if  I  had  noticed  the  presence  of  that  repu 
tile  of  a  boy." 

"  Well,"  said  Wentworth,  beginning  to  despair,  "  but  that 
does  not  excuse  your  making  fun  of  my  dress,  or  of" 

"It's  not  true,"  interrupted  Witherlee.  "I  simply  said, 
jestingly,  that  you  looked  bizarre  with  your  long  curls  and 
your  Rubens  hat,  and  so  you  do.  But  it  was  harmless  joking 
enough,  I'm  sure." 

"  I  don't  think,  at  anyrate,  it  was  harmless  joking  for  you 
to  jeer  at  Harrington's  coat,  and  say  he  looked  like  a  rag 
picker/'  remarked  Wentworth. 

"  Well,  if  I  ever  heard  of  such  malice  and  misrepresentation 
as  that  little  serpent  has  been  guilty  of !"  exclaimed  Fernando, 
with  virtuous  indignation.  "  I  never  said  anything  of  the  sort. 
I  simply  remarked  that  Emily  looked  all  the  more  gorgeous  in 
contrast  to  the  plain  attire  of  Harrington,  which  was  the  sim 
ple  truth.  And  as  for  the  rest,  my  remark  was  that  if  she 
was  dressed  like  a  ragpicker,  she  would  still  be  beautiful. 
Upon  my  word,  I  will  chastise  that  boy  the  next  time  I  see 
him  !" 

Wentworth  looked  perfectly  confounded  as  Witherlee,  with 
an  air  of  indisputable  veracity,  told  these  bold  lies. 

"  By  Jupiter  !"  he  exclaimed,  "  Johnny  must  have  mistaken 
what  you  said,  Fernando,  with  a  vengeance  !  Well — but  see 


392  HARRINGTON. 

here,  you  certainly  gave  Bagasse  to  understand  that  Harring 
ton  and  I  were  in  love  with  Muriel  and  Emily.  Since  you 
are  a  friend  of  his,  I  won't  blame  you  for  what  you  say  you 
said  in  confidence  ;  but  still  that  doesn't  excuse  you  for  saying 
contemptuously  that  Muriel  would  as  soon  marry  a  man  out 
of  the  alms-house  as  Harrington,  and  scornfully  calling  atten 
tion,  as  you  did  in  that  connection,  to  Harrington's  apparel. 
You  must  have  said  that,  for  Johnny  told  me  circumstantially 
what  Bagasse  said  in  reply,  and  he  seemed  to  remember  that 
better  than  what  you  had  said.  And  by  the  way,  your  repre 
senting  that  John  and  I  were  these  ladies'  lovers,  doesn't 
square  with  your  assertion  just  now  to  Emily,  that  you  had  no 
idea  of  any  feeling  between  her  and  me.  By  Jupiter,  Fer 
nando  !"  cried  Wentworth  at  this  point,  elated  to  think  that 
he  had  really  caught  Witherlee  in  a  contradiction,  "you  can't 
make  that  square  !" 

"  Mr.  Wentworth,"  replied  Fernando  with  dignified  severity, 
"  you  go  too  far  when  you  impugn  my  veracity,  and  you  are 
perfectly  reckless  in  your  -assertions.  I  told  Emily  that  I  had 
no  idea  there  was  any  feeling  between  you  two,  and  I  told  her 
the  truth." 

"  Who  did  you  think  I  had  a  feeling  for  ?"  demanded 
Wentworth. 

"  Since  you  force  me  to  say,  I  thought  it  was  Muriel — and 
Harrington  can  bear  me  witness,"  said  Witherlee,  severely. 

"  Yes,"  said  Harrington,  laconically.  "  Fernando  told  me 
so." 

"  Now,  then  1"  exclaimed  Witherlee,  triumphantly,  "  where 
doesn't  it  square  ?" 

Wentworth  looked  completely  flabbergasted,  as  the  sailors 
say,  and  colored  painfully. 

"  As  for  the  rest,"  pursued  Witherlee,  "it  is  just  one  tissue 
of  misstatements.  I  never  told  Bagasse  you  and  Harrington 
were  in  love  with  these  ladies.  On  the  contrary,  when  he 
got  the  notion  into  his  head,  I  scouted  it,  as  your  own  state 
ment  shows,  for  I  did  not  wish  him  to  believe  what,  though  I 
supposed  it,  I  did  not  absolutely  know  was  the  case.  It  is 
true  that  in  endeavoring  to  convey  to  Bagasse  that  there  was 


HARRINGTON.  393 

no  foundation  for  his  belief,  I  did  say,  rather  splenetically,  for 
his  pertinacity  irritated  me,  that  it  was  just  as  likely  Muriel 
would  wed  a  man  out  of  the  poor-house  as  Harrington.  But 
I  protest  against  the  construction  of  those  words  which  would 
make  it  seem  that  I  compared  Harrington  to  a  pauper,  or 
insulted  him  in  any  way.  I  was  only  endeavoring  to  indicate 
the  distance  between  his  social  position  and  Muriel's.  You 
must  bear  in  mihd  that  I  was  talking  to  an  illiterate  man  and 
a  foreigner,  and  I  only  adapted  my  language  to  his  illiteracy 
and  to  his  imperfect  knowledge  of  English,  and  used  coarser 
terms  than  I  would  to  a  different  person,  which  explains  my 
use  of  that  phrase,  and  the  allusion  to  Harrington's  plain 
coat.  All  I  meant,  and  all  I  would  have  said  to  a  person 
of  culture,  was  that  Muriel  would  not  marry  beneath  her 
station." 

"  You  were  right,  Fernando,"  said  Muriel,  coldly.  "  I  never 
would,  and  Harrington  knows  it." 

"  So  I  thought,"  complacently  replied  Witherlee,  thinking, 
oddly  enough,  that  she  concurred  with  him.  "  I  knew  that 
you  and  Harrington  were  only  friends." 

"  But  this  Bagasse,  I  am  told,  thought  it  would  not  be 
beneath  me  to  marry  Harrington,"  remarked  Muriel,  with  an 
air  of  contemptuous  hauteur  which  Witherlee  had  never  seen 
her  wear  before,  and  which  surprised  him.  Whew !  he 
thought,  Harrington  is  catching  it  now  for  his  presumption 
with  a  vengeance  !  I  wouldn't  sit  there,  and  have  that  said 
to  my  face,  for  anything. 

"  Why  yes,"  he  replied,  glancing  at  Harrington,  who  sat 
with  his  face  buried  in  his  hand,  and  what  was  visible  of  it  so 
red  that  Witherlee  thought  he  was  smitten  with  agonizing 
shame,  as  he  was,  but  it  was  for  Witherlee.  "  Yes,  Bagasse 
went  into  a  fit  of  eloquence  about  it,  and  told  what  he 
would  do  if  he  was  '  vair  fine  ladee,'  and  thought  Harrington 
loved  him."  And  Witherlee  laughed  turtle-husky  at  the 
reminiscence,  without  any  more  regard  for  Harrington's  feel 
ings  than  if  he  were  a  post. 

"  Well,  Wentworth,  are  you  satisfied  ?"  asked  Muriel, 
quietly. 

17* 


394:  HAREINGTON. 

Wentworth,  who  had  gone  off  into  deep  abstraction,  and 
lost  the  conversation  between  Muriel  and  Witherlee  (winch 
would  have  convulsed  him,  and  which  had  sorely  tried  Emily's 
power  to  suppress  her  mirth),  started  and  colored. 

"  Why,  yes,"  he  replied,  "  I  am  bound  to  own  that  Fernan- 
do's  explanation  puts  a  different  look  upon  the  matter,  though 
I  think  he  did  wrong  to  speak  to  Bagasse  in  such  terms  of 
Harrington,  and  I  think  he  owes  Harrington  an  apology  for 
language  at  the  best  too  ungentlemanly — I  must  Hay  it,  Fer 
nando — to  be  passed  over  in  silence.  There  is  no  excuse  for 
it.  It  was  shameful." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so,  Richard  ?"  said  Muriel,  with  such 
a  contemptuous  tone  and  expression  that  Wentworth  turned 
red,  and  stared  at  her,  wondering  what  she  could  mean  ;  while 
Emily  moved  away  to  the  window,  and  hid  herself  behind  a 
curtain,  that  she  might  give  some  vent  to  her  agony  of 
mirth. 

"  Well,  Fernando,"  said  Muriel,  after  a  pause,  "  what  do 
you  think  about  making  Mr.  Harrington  an  apology  ?" 

Witherlee,  emboldened  to  intense  insolence  by  his  mon 
strously  silly  supposition  that  Muriel  was  showering  contempt 
on  her  lover,  curved  a  supercilious  lip  and  curled  a  contume 
lious  nose  to  that  extent,  that  the  fiery  Wentworth  positively 
ached  to  knock  him  down. 

"  I  do  not  think  about  it  at  all,"  drawled  the  good  Fer 
nando. 

"  Yery  well,"  said  Muriel,  holding  Wentworth  with  her 
eye.  "  Now,  Fernando,  since  we  are  explaining  things,  let 
me  ask  you  how  you  came  to  say  that  you  saw  Wentworth 
and  I  one  afternoon  more  than  a  week  ago,  folded  in  each 
other's  arms  in  the  parlor,  and  kissing  each  other  ?" 

Muriel's  tactics  were  capital.  By  diverting  his  mind  from 
the  main  subject  of  conversation,  she  had  thrown  him  com 
pletely  off  his  guard,  and  then  suddenly  sprung  this  question 
upon  him.  Fernando  positively  changed  color,  and  then  turned 
deadly  pale.  If  a  bomb- shell  had  quietly  fallen  into  his  lap, 
with  the  fuze  just  fizzing  into  the  powder,  he  could  not  have 
been  much  more  astounded. 


HARRINGTON.  395 

There  was  a  pause,  in  which  Emily  came  gliding  back  to  her 
seat,  all  alive  with  cariosity  at  this  unexpected  turn  in  affairs, 
while  Weiitworth  stared  blankly,  and  Harrington  sat  with  his 
face  buried  in  his  hand,  watching  Witherlee,  as  the  marine 
phrase  has  it,  out  of  the  tail  of  his  eye. 

"  Well,  Fernando,  you  turn  red,  and  then  you  turn  pale," 
remarked  Muriel,  quietly.  "What  do  those  two  colors 
mean  ?" 

"  They  mean  astonishment,"  said  Witherlee,  recovering  his 
self-possession  instantly,  and  looking  at  her  with  his  most 
brazen  face,  conscious  that  the  tug  of  war  had  come,  and  with 
an  antagonist  of  another  sort  than  Wentworth  or  Emily. 

Oho,  thought  Muriel,  surveying  his  admirably  dissimulated 
face.  I  wonder  if  I'm  going  to  lose  this  move.  Let's  see. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  deny  that  I  did  see  you  in  such  a  posi 
tion  with  Wentworth  ?"  said  Witherlee. 

"  Most  assuredly,"  was  Muriel's  quiet  reply. 

"  Most  inevitably,"  said  Wentworth,  like  an  Irish  echo. 

"  Why,  this  is  perfectly  unaccountable,"  murmured  Wither 
lee,  with  superbly  acted  astonishment.  "  I  certainly  did  see 
you  both,  as  I  told  Mr.  Harrington  in  a  rash  moment,  which 
I  can  never  too  much  regret.  I  was  entering  the  parlor  when  I 
saw  you,  and  drew  back  instantly.  I  came  in  again  in  a 
minute,  and  Emily  had  just  entered  the  room,  through  the 
door  leading  from  the  conservatory." 

"  It  can't  be,"  said  Muriel. 

"  Can't  possibly  be,"  said  the  Irish  echo,  ineffably  delighted 
at  Witherlee's  fix. 

"  But  how  could  I  be  mistaken,"  persisted  Witherlee. 
"  There  you  evidently  were,  both  of  you,  in  that  position. 
You,  Muriel,  had  on  the  lilac  dress  you  so  often  wear.  It 
was  the  first  thing  I  saw,  and  I  knew  you  by  it  instantly." 

"  Utterly  impossible,"  said  Muriel. 

"  Tee-totally  impossible,"  said  the  gleeful  echo. 

Witherlee  was  silent,  and  gazed  at  them  with  admirable 
dubiety,  wishing  in  his  heart  that  they  would  only  say  more, 
for  with  these  brief  denials,  he  found  it  difficult  to  gracefully 
gain  the  point  he  was  driving  at. 


396  HAKKINGTON. 

"  It  was  I  you  saw,  Fernando  ;  I  had  on  a  lilac  dress  that 
evening,"  said  the  innocent  Emily,  blushing. 

Muriel  winced,  for  her  game  was  weakened  by  this  avowal, 
which  had  brought  up  the  point  Fernando  was  waiting  for, 
and  which  she  did  not  mean  he  should  have.  Fernando,  mean 
while,  was  delighted,  for  he  saw  his  clear  way  out. 

"You  had  on  a  lilac  dress  that  evening  \n  he  said,  with  an 
air  of  surprise,  to  Emily.  "  Well,  I  declare  I  didn't  notice  it. 
But  how  does  that  alter  the  matter  ?  Oh,  I  see  !"  he  ex 
claimed,  his  face  lighting.  "  It  was  the  lilac  dress  misled  me, 
for  you  wore  your  lilac  dress  that  evening,  Muriel.  That's  it. 
My  eye  caught  sight  of  the  dress,  and  I  mistook  you  for  Emily, 
and  retreated  before  my  eye  could  rectify  the  error.  What 
an  unlucky  blunder  !  Fm  very,  very  sorry.  But  in  the  con 
fusion  of  the  moment,  I  was  naturally  deceived.  Well,  well  ! 
Muriel,  I  humbly  beg  your  pardon,  not  only  for  having  men 
tioned  what  I  thought  I  saw  to  Mr.  Harrington — but  you 
won't  blame  me  for  that,  for  it  foolishly  came  out  in  the  heat 
of  conversation — but  for  this  unfortunate  mistake  of  mine.  It 
was  natural,  under  the  circumstances,  but  it  is  not  the  less  hu 
miliating.  Say  that  you  forgive  me,  now,  do  !" 

"  Oh,  well,  Fernando,"  she  replied,  nonchalantly  laughing, 
"  I  must,  of  course,  give  weight  to  your  plea  of  its  naturalness 
under  the  circumstances.  Still,  you  perceive  it  was  a  rather 
awkward  blunder,  and  it  ought  to  make  you  more  careful  for 
the  future." 

"  Indeed,  it  will — I'll  be  very  careful  not  to  make  such  a 
mistake  again,"  said  Fernando,  laughing  turtle,  and  quite  ex 
hilarated  by  his  lucky  escape. 

"  That's  right,"  said  Muriel,  gaily.  "  For  such  a  mistake, 
Fernando,  might  break  up  our  long  acquaintance.  At  all 
events,"  she  pursued,  with  a  laugh,  "  it  might  prevent  your 
being  honored  with  such  a  theatrical  reception  as  I  gave  you 
that  evening." 

"  Theatrical  ?"  said  he,  smiling  ;  "  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Why,  don't  you  remember,"  she  lightly  responded,  "  how 
suddenly  I  struck  an  attitude,  and  held  out  the  bunch  of 
flowers  to  you  ?" 


HARRINGTON.  397 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  replied  the  jocund  Witherlee.  "  I  had  for 
gotten  it,  but  I  remember  it  now.  Just  as  I  came  in  at  one 
door,  and  you  " 

He  paused  blankly,  but  he  was  in  the  trap,  and  there  was 
no  escape  now. 

"  And  I  came  in  at  the  other,"  continued  Muriel,  finishing 
his  sentence. 

He  gazed  at  her,  pale,  with  opaquest  eyes  ;  she  at  him,  with 
clear  eyes  aglow,  and  a  solemn  look  upon  her  countenance. 
Wentworth  and  Emily  stared  at  both  of  them,  not  compre 
hending  the  point  at  all. 

"  And  now,  Fernando,"  said  Muriel,  calmly,  "the  question 
for  you  to  answer  is — How  could  you  think  you  saw  me  with 
Wentworth,  when  you  saw  me  come  hi  from  the  conservatory, 
holding  out  the  bunch  of  flowers  to  you  ?" 

A  posing  question  1  There  was  a  long  pause,  in  which 
Witherlee  kept  his  rigid  face  fixed  upon  her.  Then,  unable 
to  bear  her  clear  gaze,  he  meanly  trembled,  and  his  head  fell. 

"  Ah  1"  said  Wentworth,  in  a  low  voice,  "  catch  the  first  ! 
A  decided  catch.  Fernando,  my  boy,  we  have  you  in  a  pure 
and  simple  lie." 

At  this  terrible  speech,  Witherlee  lifted  his  livid  and  rigid 
face  with  a  forlorn  attempt  at  dignity,  but  he  could  not  sus 
tain  it.  His  glittering  and  unsteady  eyes  flickered  away  from 
the  open  and  gallant  countenance  of  Wentworth ;  from  Emily, 
gazing  at  him  with  lustrous  scorn  ;  from  Muriel,  looking  at 
him  with  solemn  pity  ;  from  Harrington,  sitting  with  his  head 
bowed  in  his  hand,  and  fell.  He  could  not  bear  to  look  at 
them.  Mischief-makers,  Ijke  other  criminals,  usually  mix  folly 
with  their  crime,  and  in  the  commission  of  their  wickedness, 
commonly  leave  the  clue  to  its  discovery.  Thus  had  Witherlee 
done.  And  now  he  was  found  out.  To  tattle  and  lie  and 
slander  was  nothing  to  him  ;  but  to  be  discovered,  was  death. 

"  Fernando,"  said  Emily,  with  indignant  composure,  "  this 
wicked  fajsehood  you  have  told  makes  it  impossible  to  believe 
a  word  you  have  said.  I  do  not  now  credit  a  single  syllable 
of  your  explanation — not  one." 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice,  Witherlee  seemed  to  recover  a 


398  HAEKINGTON. 

little  self-possession,  for  he  turned  quickly  to  her,  though  his 
unsteady  eyes  did  not  rest  upon  her  face. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  say  that,"  he  replied  in  a  querulous 
and  tremulous  voice,  "  no  right  whatever.  I  am  willing  to 
own  my  fault,  but  it  is  not  fair  to  argue  from  one  fault  to 
another.  I  have  told  you  the  truth,  and  you  saw  its  reason 
ableness,  and  acquitted  me  of  blame.  It  is  not  fair  to  take  it 
back,  not  at  all  fair." 

He  rose  to  his  feet  with  a  look  of  received  injury,  which 
even  then  touched  Emily,  and  made  her  hesitate  in  her  ver 
dict.  But  at  that  moment  Harrington  left  his  chair,  and 
came  toward  him  with  tears  flowing  from  his  eyes.  Witherlee 
cowered  at  the  sight  of  this  solemn  and  compassionate  emo 
tion,  and  his  head  fell.  In  that  moment  he  remembered  the 
hard  and  cruel  insult  he  had  so  lately  flung  upon  the  man  be 
fore  him,  and  he  trembled  in  an  agony  of  shame. 

"  Fernando,"  said  Harrington,  calmly  and  tenderly,  "  I 
pity  you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  I  could  almost  die 
with  pity  for  you.  Do  not,  I  beg  of  you,  do  not  degrade  your 
soul  by  persisting  in  what  you  know  to  be  falsehoods.  You 
know  you  are  not  telling  Emily  the  truth  now,  and  you  know 
there  is  not  a  word  of  truth  in  all  you  have  told  her." 

"  I  do  not  see  what  right  you  have  to  say  that,  Harring 
ton,"  faltered  Witherlee. 

"  Fernando  !"  exclaimed  Harrington,  solemnly,  "  Alas, 
alas  !  you  poor  fellow,  I  do  not  blame  you  !  there  is  some  vir 
tue  still  in  this  forlorn  attempt  to  clothe  the  nakedness  of 
your  falsehood  in  the  semblance  of  truth.  But  it  is  useless, 
and  it  only  does  your  nature  a  moror  grievous  harm.  Do  you 
not  see  that  you  have  already  confessed  all  ?  You  have 
admitted  that  you  knew  it  was  Emily  and  Wentworth  you 
saw  together.  You  knew,  therefore,  that  they  were  lovers. 
How  can  you  say  then,  that  in  your  conversation  with  Emily 
that  very  evening,  you  did  not  know  of  their  feeling  for  each 
other  ?  How  can  you  say  that  you  did  not  know  your  terri 
ble  dispraise  of  Wentworth,  so  artfully  clothed  in  praise, 
would  shock  and  grieve  the  woman  who  loved  him  ?  How 
can  you  say  you  did  not  know  your  story  of  Susan  Hollings- 


HARRINGTON. 

worth  would  throw  its  shadow  on  the  thoughts  with  which 
you  had  filled  Emily  ?  How  can  you  say  you  thought  your 
aggravating  word  a  week  later  over  the  violets,  was  harm 
less  ?  Ah,  Fernando  I  how  could  you  so  .coldly  and  cruelly 
drop  this  subtle  poison  into  the  hearts  of  two  lovers  ?  You 
gave  Richard  and  Emily  hours  of  terrible  suffering.  You 
nearly  alienated  them  from  each  other — you  almost  murdered 
their  love.  How  could  you  do  it  ?  You  knew  they  loved 
each  other — you  knew  I  loved  Muriel ;  and  yet  you  wantonly 
saddened  my  heart  by  virtually  telling  me  that  Wentworth 
and  Muriel  were  betrothed.  At  the  same  time  when  you 
knew  that  Emily  loved  "Wentworth,  you  gave  Captain 
Fisher  to  understand  that  she  was  engaged  to  me.  Fernando, 
you  are  entirely  discovered.  Your  talk  with  Bagasse  is  just 
as  transparent,  and  just  as  disgraceful  to  your  better  nature, 
as  all  the  rest.  Alas,  alas  !  I  can  only  pity  you  !•" 

The  deep  voice  was  gentle,  and  tears  still  flowed  from  the 
calm  eyes.  Emily  sat  with  her  handkerchief  to  her  face, 
touched  by  the  majestic  sorrow  of  Harrington  into  compas 
sion,  and  weeping  silently.  Muriel  had  covered  her  eyes  with 
her  hand.  Wentworth  stood  with  folded  arms,  his  face  pale, 
and  fixed  on  Witherlee.  Witherlee,  completely  unmasked 
even  to  himself,  stood  with  bowed  head,  livid  and  trembling, 
and  there  was  a  long  pause. 

"  Harrington,"  faltered  the  poor  rogue,  in  a  weak,  querulous 
voice,  "I  am  very  sorry — I  am  indeed.  I  know  I've  done 
wrong — very  wrong,  and  I'm  sorry.  I  feel  very  miserable.  I 
haven't  a  friend  in  the  world  now,  and  I  know  I  don't  deserve 
to  have.  But  I  hope  you'll  forgive  me,  Harrington,  though  I 
did  you  harm.  I  didn't  quite  mean  " 

His  faltering  voice  broke,  and  apparently  unconscious  of  any 
but  the  presence  of  the  young  man  before  him,  he  sunk  his 
head  a  little  lower,  and  stood  trembling. 

"  Forgive  you  I"  exclaimed  Harrington,  in  a  voice  so  sudden 
and  sonorous  that  Witherlee  started,  and  fell  a  pace  away. 
"  Fernando,  give  me  your  hand  !" 

Tremblingly,  as  Harrington  strode  straight  up  to  him,  with 
a  frank  outstretched  arm,  Witherlee  put  his  nerveless  hand  in 


4:00  HARRINGTON. 

his,  looked  up  for  an  instant  into  the  masculine  and  noble 
face,  dropped  his  head  and  burst  into  tears. 

A  surge  of  emotion  overswept  them  all,  and  for  a  minute 
there  was  no  sound  but  the  thick  sobs  of  Witherlee. 

"  Fernando,"  said  Harrington,  solemnly,  clasping  his  hand, 
and  putting  his  arm  tenderly  around  him,  "  let  the  past  be 
with  the  past,  and  live  nobler  for  the  future.  See  :  your 
repentance  cancels  all,  and  lifts  you  into  better  life.  You  are 
not  friendless — not  forsaken.  We  are  your  friends,  all  of  us, 
and  we  will  stand  by  you.  Forgive  you  ?  I  do  with  all  my 
soul,  fully,  heartily,  cordially." 

"  And  I,  too,  Fernando,"  cried  Muriel,  bounding  up,  and 
gliding  swiftly  toward  him,  with  humid  eyes  and  outstretched 
hand.  "  Well  I  may,  for  you  did  me  the  greatest  service  ever 
done  to  me,  and  I  owe  you  much  gratitude." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  faltered  poor  Witherlee,  trembling 
all  over,  and  smiling,  with  an  effort,  a  thin,  gelid,  arctic  smile 
through  his  abject  tears,  as  he  tremulously  shook  her  hand. 

11  You  introduced  me,  three  years  ago,  to  Harrington,"  she 
smilingly  replied,  a  and  now  he  is  my  husband.  We  were 
married  yesterday." 

Fernando  stopped  trembling,  and  lifted  his  handsome  eye 
brows  a  hair's  breadth,  with  something  of  his  old  manner,  then 
fell  a-trembling  again,  and  tried  to  smile. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  this,"  he  wanly  faltered,  "  very 
glad  indeed.  I  wish  you  much  happiness.  If  you'll  please  to 
excuse  me,  I'll — I'll  take  my  leave." 

He  bowed  with  the  ghost  of  his  former  affected  elegance  of 
manner,  and  gelidly  smiling,  backed  toward  the  door. 

"  Hold  on,  Fernando,"  exclaimed  Went  worth,  flying  over 
to  him.  "Tip  us  your  flipper,  my  boy.  There  isn't  a  speck 
of  me  that's  not  friendly  to  you — not  a  speck.  Come  and 
see  me  as  often  as  you  can — that's  a  good  fellow." 

And  Wentworth,  smiling,  shook  his  hand  up  and  down 
with  great  cordiality,  as  he  rattled  off  this  address. 

"  And  I,  Fernando,"  said  Emily,  with  her  slow,  ambrosial 
smile,  sweeping  over  to  him  as  she  spoke,  and  also  taking  his 
hand,  "  I  am  more  your  friend  than  I  have  ever  been.  I  felt 


HARRINGTON.  401 

terribly  at  what  you  said,  but  I  don't  now,  so  let  it  all  go. 
Come  to  see  me  soon,  won't  you  ?" 

"  Thank  you.     You  are  both  very  kind,"  faltered  Witherlee. 

"  Let  us  see  you  as  often  as  you  can,  Fernando,"  said  Har 
rington,  shaking  hands  with  him. 

"  Yes,  do,  Fernando,"  said  Muriel,  also  giving  him  her 
hand.  "  Let  us  forget  all  this,  and  when  we  next  meet,  let  it 
be  happily." 

He  bowed,  with  his  face  full  of  forlorn  emotion,  and  backing 
to  the  door,  bowed  himself  out  of  the  room.  They  stood  in 
silence.  Presently  they  heard  the  shutting  of  the  street-door. 
He  was  gone. 

"  Good  1"  exclaimed  Wentworth,  with  a  deep  respiration. 
"  Fernando's  cured  for  life  !" 

"  I  believe  he  is,"  murmured  Muriel.  "  But  he  almost 
missed  his  salvation,  poor  fellow  !" 

"  That  he  did,"  replied  Wentworth.  "  He  got  clear  of 
Emily,  and  he  got  clear  of  me.  I  never  saw  anything  like 
it.  But  you  nailed  him,  Muriel,  and  Harrington  finished 
him." 

"  Ah,  me  !"  said  Harrington,  with  a  deep  sigh,  "  it  was  an 
awful  lesson  to  give  a  fellow-being.  But  it  was  for  his  good. 
Yes,  he  will  be  a  better  man  for  the  future." 

Emily  sat  in  silence,  wiping  the  fast-springing  tears  from  her 
eyes. 

"  I  wonder  how  he  will  look  when  we  next  see  him,"  said 
Wentworth,  musingly.  "  And  I  wonder  how  soon  he  wil^call 
here  after  this  " 

"  Nay,"  interrupted  Muriel,  her  drooping  hands  clasped 
before  her,  and  her  head  bowed  in  pensive  reverie,  "  he  will 
never  call  here  again." 

She  was  right.    He  never  did — but  once. 


402  HARRINGTON. 


CHAPTER  XXYI. 

A     MAN     OF    RUINED     BLOOD. 

WHERE  was  Mr.  Lafitte  all  this  time  ?  Had  he  returned 
to  the  sunny  South,  and  to  that  particular  part  of  its  sun- 
niness  in  which  sweltered  his  negroes  at  their  miserable 
toil? 

Mr.  Lafitte  had  not.  He  was  still  in  the  city,  at  the  Tre- 
mont  House,  and  for  the  last  three  days  he  had  kept  his  room, 
sick  and  shattered  with  the  terrible  shock  he  had  received,  and 
raging  like  a  devil  in  his  impotent  fury.  That  he  should  owe 
his  life  to  the  man  he  hated  was  bad  enough;  but  to  a  woman, 
and  worse  still,  to  a  negro — oh,  to  his  rank  and  insolent  pride 
this  was  the  humiliation  of  humiliations  !  It  had  not  come  to 
him  at  first,  but  several  hours  after  Harrington  had  left  him, 
when  he  began  to  recover  from  the  paralysis  of  spirit  in  which 
he  lay,  it  outgrew  upon  him,  and  increased  in  intensity,  till  he 
raved  in  a  phrenetic  agony  of  infernal  shame  and  rage. 

In  this  delightful  mood  he  had  continued  for  three  days. 
Exhausted  on  the  night  of  the  third  by  the  violence  of  his 
fren^,  he  had  slept  heavily,  and  awakened  late  on  the  morn 
ing  of  the  fourth,  calmer  in  spirit,  and  though,  still  somewhat 
weak,  stronger  and  in  better  health  than  he  had  been.  The 
Atkinses,  father  and  sons,  had  called  severally  three  tunes, 
during  his  illness,  but  he  had  left  orders  that  he  would 
see  nobody,  and  they  had  not  been  admitted  to  his  presence. 

Up  now  and  dressed,  his  breakfast  eaten,  two  juleps  imbibed 
and  a  cigar  finished,  he  began  to  feel  more  like  himself,  and 
look  more  like  the  handsome  brunette  devil  he  usually  was.  A 
little  less  rich  hi  color,  to  be  sure,  but  still  sufficiently  so  for 
good  appearance's  sake  ;  and  as  he  walked 'up  and  down  the 
plainly-furnished  chamber,  in  the  space  between  his  bed  and 


HAKEINGTON.  403 

the  window,  he  even  felt  something  of  his  usual  fiendish  jocun 
dity  revive  sullenly  within  him. 

Three  letters  had  arrived  for  him  during  his  illness.  He  had 
not  even  looked  at  them,  but  let  them  lie  unopened  on  the 
table  where  the  servant  had  laid  them.  Now,  however,  when 
his  mind  was  able  to  attend  to  their  contents,  he  paused  in  his 
walk  as  his  eye  rested  on  them,  and  approaching  the  table, 
took  them  up,  and  gazed  at  their  superscriptions  and  post-marks. 

"  That's  .from  my  brother,"  he  muttered,  "  and  that  also, 
and  this — '  Mobile — forwarded ' — who  can  this  i>e  from  ?" 

He  tore  it  open,  and  ran  his  eye  over  the  contents. 

"  Oh,  pshaw  1"  he  snarled,  flinging  it  down.  "  Business. 
Business  be  cursed  !  I'm  in  no  mood  for  business.  Let's  see 
what  Joseph  has  to  say  for  himself.  Which  is  the  first — Oh, 
this  is  it." 

He  opened  the  letter,  deliberately  smoothed  it  out,  and 
caressing  his  moustache  with  one  hand,  while  he  held  the  sheet 
in  the  other,  began  to  read  with  a  face  that  flushed  into  a 
horrid  and  tigerish  smile  as  he  read  on.  This  was  the  letter  : 


NEW  ORLEANS,  La.,  Mwy  2Qth,  1852. 
DEAR  TORWOOD  : 

There's  been  the  devil  to  pay  up  on  your  plantation,  and  no  mis 
take,  and  poor  Tassle  has  gone  the  way  of  all  flesh.  On  the  15th, 
Tassle  lashed  that  mulatto  wench  Sally  three  or  four  times  for  falling 
down  in  the  rows — the  yellow  beast  pretending  of  course  that  she  was 
sick,  as  they  always  do.  Precious  little  work,  at  all  events,  was  got 
out  of  her  that  day,  and  when  night  came,  Tassle  staked  her  down  for 
a  good  flogging.  That  black  Jim  of  yours,  her  husband,  tried  to  beg 
her  off  the  flogging,  but  Tassle  wasn't  to  be  wheedled  out  of  it,  and 
struck  Jim,  so  they  tell  me,  across  the  face  with  the  whip.  Where 
upon,  Jim  flew  at  him  with  an  axe,  arid  in  a  second  it  was  all  up  with 
poor  Tassle.  The  boy  actually  cut  him  to  pieces,  and  then  ran  for  the 
swamp.  The  planters  were  roused,  however,  got  out  'the  dogs,  hunted 
him  down,  and  in  less  than  no  time,  I  may  say,  a  fire  was  lit  by  the 
bayou,  and  the  black  scoundrel  trussed  up  and  burned  alive,  screeching 
like  mad,  with  all  the  niggers  looking  on.  They'll  profit  by  the  ex 
ample,  I  reckon,  and  learn  that  it  won't  do  to  murder  a  white  man — 
the  cursed  brutes. 

I  am  hurrying  up  to  fix  business,  so  that  I  can  go  up  river,  and  at 
tend  to  the  plantation  for  you,  till  you  get  back.     But  you'd  better 


404:  HAKKINGTON. 

hurry  home  as  quick  as  you  can,  for  it's  a  busy  season  with  us  here, 
and  I  can't  well  be  away.  In  has^e,  your  aff., 

JOSEPH  LAFITTE. 

P.S.  By  the  way,  the  wench  Sally  gave  birth  to  a  fine  piccaninny,  a 
boy,  that  night — somewhat  prematurely,  I'm  told.  So  you  see  there's 
no  small  loss  without  some  great  gain.  As  for  Tassle,  he's  no  loss  at 
all,  for  you  can  easily  replace  him,  and  I've  got  my  eye  on  a  capital 
overseer  for  you.  J.  L. 

The  smile  on-  the  sardonic  visage  of  Mr.  Lafitte  expanded 
more  and  more  tigerish,  and  as  he  came  to  the  end  of  the  let 
ter,  he  burst  into  a  smooth,  soft  roar  of  merriment,  while 
floods  of  devilish  delight  raged  within  him. 

"  And  so  William  Tassle's  food  for  worms,"  he  soliloquized, 
shaking  with  internal  laughter.  "  Poor  Tassle,  that's  the  end 
of  you.  And  Jim's  roasted.  Good  !  I  hope  they  made  the 
fire  slow.  Infernal  scoundrel  1  I  wish  I'd  been  there  to  hear 
him  screech  the  soul  out  of  him.  That's  the  way  to  keep  the 
black  devils  under.  God  !  if  it  wasn't  for  a  good  fire  *ound 
some  of  them  when  they  lift  their  hands  against  us,  I  believe 
that  they'd  be  up  in  insurrection,  and  give  us  St.  Domingo. 
But  that  they  never  can  do  while  the  Union  lasts.  Ah,  the 
glorious  Union  !  Rise  on  us  if  you  dare,  my  black  angels,  and 
see  the  short  work  the  muskets  of  the  Union  will  make  with 
you.  Liberty  and  Union,  now  and  forever,  one  and  insepar 
able  !  That's  the  ticket  for  you,  my  black  cherubs  !" 

And  again  Mr.  Lafitte  burst  into  raging  laughter. 

"  Ah,  me,  an  me  !"  he  sighed,  subsiding.  "  I  feel  refresh 
ingly  wicked  to-day,  spite  of  all.  This  news  has  done  me 
good.  But  let's  see  what  Joseph  has  to  say  again,"  he  added, 
deliberately  opening  the  other  letter,  and  smoothing  it  out  as 
he  had  done  the*first,  with  a  sardonic  smile  on  his  brunette  face. 

Ah,  Mr.  Lafitte  !  What  is  this  ?  As  he  began  to  read 
the  color  of  his  face  vanished,  like  the  flame  of  a  blown-out 
lamp,  his  complexion  became  livid,  with  dark  spots  on  its 
ghastliness,  his  eyes  grew  glassy,  and  his  jaw  fell.  He  did 
not  drop  the  letter,  but  read  slowly  and  steadily  on — and  this 
is  what  he  read  : 


HARRINGTON.  405 

LAFITTE  PLANTATION,  AVOYELLES,  LA.  ) 
May  23d,  1852.  J 

TORWOOD,  come  home  for  God's  sake  as  quick  as  you  can.  There's 
worse  news  here  than  I  wrote  you  on  the  20th.  Josephine  has  eloped 
with  young  Raynal.  I'm  sorry  to  tell  you  so  abruptly,  but  I  don't  know 
how  to  break  it  to  you.  This  is  evidently  a  preconcerted  affair,  for 
Raynal,  you  know,  was  retiring  from  business  just  about  the  time  you 
left,  and  has  since  been  turning  all  his  property  into  money.  Anyhow, 
they're  gone — gone  to  Italy — and  they're  out  of  the  country  by  this 
time. 

I've  just  arrived  here,  and  I  never  was  so  horrified  in  my  life  as  when 
I  discovered  this.  I  half  suspected  that  there  was  something  wrong 
when  I  heard  that  Raynal  had  been  in  the  neighborhood,  for  I  knew 
that  he  loved  her  before  her  marriage  to  you.  But  I  didn't  get  any 
idea  of  it  till  just  now,  when  I  came  up  to  the  house  and  inquiring  for 
Josephine,  was  told  by  your  cook  that  Raynal  came  there  the  night  of 
Jim's  barbecue,  and  that  she  had  left  with  him,  taking  only  a  single 
trunk  with  her.  Which  way  they  went,  up  river,  or  down,  nobody 
knows.  But  I  went  up-stairs  into  her  chamber,  and  found  a  sheet  of 
note  paper  lying  on  her  writing-desk,  addressed  to  you,  on  which  was 
written  just  these  words  and  no  more :  "  Lafitte,  I  go  away  to-night 
to  Italy,  never  to  return."  That  was  every  word. 

Torwood,  I'm  devilish  sorry  .for  you.  I  had  no  idea  that  Josephine 
would  do  such  a  thing  as  this,  for  everybody  knows  and  says  you've 
been  a  good  husband  to  her,  and  down  in  Orleans  you  were  talked  of 
as  a  model  couple,  and  your  constant  courtesy  and  kindness  to  her 
was  in  everybody's  mouth.  Well,  women  are  the  devil,  and  no 
mistake. 

But  come  home  as  soon  as  you  can.  Nobody  but  me  knows  what 
has  happened,  and  I  think  we  can  keep  this  matter  private,  and  save 
you  the  disgrace.  Of  course  her  family  must  know  it,  but  they'll  feel 
terribly  cut  up  about  it,  and  be  willing  to  keep  dark.  I've  spread  it 
around  that  Raynal  has  taken  her  up  North  to  you,  so  the  wonder  of 
her  absence  is  explained.  Then,  perhaps,  you  can  say  that  she  died 
suddenly  up  North,  and  put  on  the  bereaved  dodge,  and  so  cover  it 
up  for  good. 

Anyhow,  come  right  along,  and  we'll  consult  together  about  it. 
In  great  haste,  your  aff., 

JOSEPH  LAFITTE. 


He  slowly  laid  the  letter  down,  and  stood  still.  Livid  and 
spotted  as  a  corpse  when  decomposition  has  begun,  his  glassy 
orbs  fixed  on  vacancy,  his  jaw  fallen  and  rigid,  his  whole  form 
motionless.  Thus  for  a  full  minute.  Then,  his  fallen  jaw 


4:06  HAERINGTON. 

slowly  lifted,  his  lips  came  together,  and  a  still  and  frightful 
smile  glided  upon  his  features. 

"  God  1"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  low,  clear,  distinct  voice,  "  it's 
over.  Josephine  has  escaped  from  holy  matrimony." 

He  said  no  more,  but  with  the  still  and  frightful  smile  upon 
his  face,  stood  motionless  for  some  minutes.  Slowly  his  color 
returned,  his  glossy,  blood-specked,  tawny  orbs  outgrew  again 
from  the  glassiness,  and  opening  his  tiger  mouth,  he  burst 
into  a  long  fit  of  smooth,  soft,  sardonic  laughter. 

"  Yes,"  he  soliloquized,  subsiding  'from  his  fiendish  mirth 
into  a  fiendish  smile — "yes,  indeed,  Josephine  has  escaped 
from  holy  matrimony.  Oh,  what  a  blow  to  the  interests  of 
morality  !  What  a  shock  to  the  foundations  of  society ! 
What  a  rupture  of  the  sacred  bonds  of  wedlock  !  What  a 
profanation  of  the  sacrament  of  marriage  !  And  Joseph  pro 
poses  to  keep  it  dark.  Oh,  Joseph,  Joseph,  how  can  you  ? 
As  a  good  Christian,  as  a  friend  of  morality,  and  religion, 
and  society,  and,  above  all,  holy  matrimony,  could  I  do  it  ? 
Ah,  never,  never  !  •  And  Joseph  wants  to  save  me  the  dis 
grace.  The  disgrace  I" — and  with  a  negrine  ptchih,  Mr.  Lafitte 
went  off  into  a  fit  of  chuckling  merriment. 

"  No,  indeed,  Joseph/'  he  resumed,  "  we  must  spread  it,  and 
spread  it  wide.  We  must  get  it  into  the  papers,  my  beloved 
brother.  We  must  get  it  into  the  New  Orleans  papers,  and 
the  Western  papers,  and  the  New  York  papers.  Josephine 
must  have  the  disgrace  as  my  last  love-touch,  and  I  must  have 
the  sympathy  of  the  Friends  of  Virtue,  sweet  Joseph.  Oh, 
Lord  !"  and  he  chuckled,  "  what  fun  I  shall  have  in  my  afflic 
tion  reading  the  homilies  of  the  moral  editors  !  Let's  see, 
how  will  they  go.  ...  Melancholy  Case  of  Conjugal  Infi 
delity.  .  .  .  Yes,  that's  pretty  good.  .  .  .  Free  Love 
Invading  the  Family  Circle.  .  .  .  And  that's  magnificent.  .  .  . 
The  Results  of  Free  Love  Teachings.  .  .  .  That's  magnifi 
cent,  too.  Let's  see.  ...  Another  Base  Violation  of  the 
Marriage  Tie.  .  .  .  Shocking  Case  of  Seduction,  Elope 
ment,  and  Crime Another  Blow  at  the  Foundations 

of  Morality.  .  .  .  Ruin  of  a  Home  and  a  Husband 

Oh,  they're  all  good — capital  1  Then  the  articles.  Lord,  but 


HARRINGTON.  407 

won't  they  be  luscious  1  How  I  shall  weep  over  the  tender 
sympathy  ;  how  I  shall  mourn,  yet  say,  it  is  just,  over  the  stern 
condemnation  of  Josephine  ;  what  a  moral  glow  I  shall  feel 
through  all  my  being  at  the  severe  rectitude  and  fidelity  to  the 
best  interests  of  morality  which  will  pervade  those  high-toned 
editorials  !  Now  let's  see.  Let's  compose  an  appropriate 
one.  It  must  be  a  piece  of  ignorant,  stupid,  brutal,  senti 
mental  twaddle,  mal-apropos  and  blundering,  and  stuck  full  of 
stale  quotations,  or  it  won't  be  in  style.  Hold  on  now,"  and 

in  a  declamatory  voice  he  went  on  as  follows  :  " We 

chronicle  in  another  column  a  mournful  case  of  conjugal  per 
fidy,  of  which  a  too  tender  and  confiding  husband  is  the  heart 
broken  victim.  To  what  vortex  are  we  rushing  ?  Well  may 
we  say,  in  the  language  of  the  immortal  dramatist,  that  such 
a  deed  as  this — 

— '  makes  marriage  vows 
As  false  as  dicers'  oaths.     Oh !  such  a  deed 
As  from  the  body  of  contraction  plucks 
The  very  soul ;  and  sweet  religion  makes 
A  rhapsody  of  words!     Rebellious  hell, 
If  thou  canst  mutine  in  a  matron's  bones, 
To  flaming  youth  let  virtue  be  as  wax, 
And  melt  in  her  own  fire!' 

Capital,  capital  1"  roared  Mr.  Lafitte,  with  a  spasm  of 
chuckling  merriment,  rubbing  his  hands  gleefully,  as  he  spoke, 
"  that's  the  stock  quotation,  and  doesn't  it  come  in  gloriously  ! 
Rebellious  hell  in  the  matron  Josephine's  bones — Oh,  upon  my 
soul,  but  that's  decidedly  neat !  Fire  away,  my  boy.  .  .  . 
In  this  melancholy  tragedy  which  has  laid  low  the  Lares  and 
Penates  of  a  once  happy  home,  and  brought  the  severest  afflic 
tion  on  the  fond  and  trusting  heart  of  a  highly  respectable  and 
estimable  citizen,  we  trace  the  pernicious  influence  of  those 
detestable  and  licentious  doctrines  which  have  become,  alas  ! 
too  prevalent  throughout  the  land.  We  allude  of  course  to  the 
doctrines  of  Free  Love,  and  let  every  man  in  his  sober  senses 
look  upon  this  domestic  tragedy,  the  legitimate  result  of  those 
vile  teachings  whose  poison  is  spread  abroad  through  the  very 
air,  and  ask  what  is  to  be  the  end,  when  such  tenets  are  openly 


408  HAEEINGTON. 

disseminated  ?  Here  was  a  woman — we  call  her  woman,  but 
every  true  woman's  heart  will  rise  in  just  indignation  to  clutch 
away  the  name  from  such  a  moral  monster  !  a  female  fiend 
rather,  who  could  defile  the  inviolable  sanctuary  of  wedded 
life,  listen  to  the  insidious  honeyed  words  of  a  base  seducer,  fly 
from  the  tender  endearments  of  home,  ruthlessly  abandon  her 
fond  and  trusting  husband  and  innocent  children — Oh,  damn 
it,"  broke  in  Mr.  Lafitte,  "  that  won't  do  !  I've  got  no  chil 
dren.  Ah,  me  !  what  a  pity.  It  would  be  so  pathetic  if  the 
children  could  be  in  it — the  dear,  little  innocent  children  !  No 
matter  :  .  .  .  .  abandon  her  fond  and  trusting  husband, 
with  whom  she  had  lived  so  many  happy  years,  and  who  had 
lavished  on  her  his  wealth,  his  good  name,  and  all  the  priceless 
riches  of  a  generous  and  affectionate  nature,  surrounding  her 
with  every  comfort  and  ministering  with  the  tenderest  assiduity 
to  her  lightest  want — abandon  all  this,  and  depart  with  her 
paramour  to  a  life  of  shame  on  the  voluptuous  and  luxurious 
shores  of  Italy.  Ah,  well  may  this  modern  Messalina  go  to 
Italy  1 

1  Tis  the  land  of  the  East,  'tis  the  clime  of  the  sun, 
Can  he  smile  on  the  deeds  that  his  children  have  done  ?' 

.  .  .  Capital !"  again  roared  Mr.  Lafitte,  rubbing  his 
gleeful  hands,  "  Italy  the  land  of  the  East !  That's  a  regular 
blunderbuss  of  a  quotation,  and  therefore  in  exquisite  keeping. 
Oh,  upon  my  soul,  t"hat  comes  in  finely  !  But  fire  away, 

Lafitte,  you  delicious  dog.     Let's  see  now What 

makes  the  criminality  of  this  shameful  woman's  conduct  more 
inexcusable  and  inexplicable  is  the  fact  that  she  had  lived  for 
years  in  the  most  perfect  harmony  with  her  amiable  and  estima 
ble  husband,  receiving  from  him  the  most  unvarying  tenderness, 
and  to  the  eye  of  every  person  most  familiar  with  their  domestic 
life,  evidently  the  happiest  of  the  happy.  We  have  it  from  the 
most  reliable  sources  that  no  cloud  ever  appeared  to  mar  the 
horizon  of  their  home,  and  among  their  intimate  friends,  the 
courtesy  and  almost  uxorious  tenderness  of  his  demeanor  to 
ward  her,  was  absolutely  proverbial.  But  why  seek  to  trace 
the  causes  of  this  base  and  ungrateful  treachery  ?  Alas  1  since 


HAEEINGTON.  409 

Ere  listened  to  the  temptings  of  the  serpent,  how  many  of  the 
sex  have  sacrificed  their  conjugal  Eden  for  the  bleak  wilderness 
of  illicit  love  !  Frailty,  thy  name  is  woman  1"  ... 

Mr.  Lafitte  stopped,  and  with  another  ptchih,  went  off  into 
a  fit  of  infernal  merriment,  wagging  his  head  from  side  to  side 
in  the  frenzy  of  his  glee. 

"  That's  the  way  they  do  it  !"  he  exclaimed,  resuming. 
"  Lord,  I  ought  to  be  an  editor  1  I  was  cut  out  for  a  high- 
pressure  moral  editor  of  the  purest  water  !  The  blasted 
idiots — that's  the  way  they  roll  it  out  whenever  one  of  these 
inexcusable  and  inexplicable  cases  of  shameful  criminality  on 
the  woman's  side,  and  heavenly  love  and  tenderness  on  the 
man's  side,  or  vice  versa,  come  to  their  confounded  eyes  !  The 
owls— the  bats—the  insufferable  fraternity  of  asses !  Lord,  Lord ! 
how  often  I've  laughed  till  I  ached  over  their  moral  gabble,  think 
ing  all  the  while  of  the  sweet  little  hell  the  women  or  the  men 
they  were  pitching  into  had  cut  away  from,  and  which  the 
witless  ninnies  hadn't  brains  enough  to  fancy  1  And  then 
their  tender  sympathy  to  the  bereaved  one — hold  on — let  me 
fancy  how  they'll  touch  me  off  ?  ...  We  proffer  to  the  bereaved 
husband,  in  his  sad  affliction,  our  tenderest  sympathy,  and  may 
God  who  tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb,  give  him  strength 
to  bear  this  terrible  trial  which  has  thus  desolated  the  sanctu 
ary  of  his  lonely  and  forsaken  home. . . .  and  so  forth,  and  so- 
forth,  and  so  forth.  Yes,  that's  the  way  they'll  pour  the  oil 
of  healing  into  my  aching  wounds  !  Oh,  but  it'll  be  touching. 
And  then  society — what  sympathy  I'll  have  from  society.  I 
must  be  in  New  Orleans  a  few  weeks  to  enjoy  my  affliction. 
How  melancholy  I'll  look — how  interesting  !  And  all  the  old 
ladies  flocking  around  me  with  such  doleful  and  tender  faces, 
and  oh,  Mr.  Lafitte,  we  feel  so  sorry  for  you,  and  oh,  Mr. 
Lafitte,  we  read  that  beautiful  article  in  the  paper  this  morn 
ing,  and  it  was  so  sweet  and  so  noble  and  so  high-toned,  and 
so  this,  that,  and  the  other.  And  the  young  ladies  ogling  me 
with  melancholy  eyes,  and  whispering  to  each  other,  oh,  isn't 
he  handsome,  and  oh,  isn't  he  interesting,  and  oh,  doesn't  he 
bear  it  beautifully,  and  how  much  did  you  say  he  was  worth  ? 
— and  dying  to  become  Mrs.  Lafitte,  number  two,  every  fool 

18 


410  HARRINGTON. 

of  them.  And  then  the  Friends  of  Virtue,  men  and  women, 
young  and  old,  in  solid  column,  pitching  into  Josephine,  and 
scandalizing  her  sky-high,  and  raking  up  everything  she  ever 
said  or  did,  and  twisting  it  against  her.  Oh,  but  it  will  be 
sweet  !  Sweeter  than  to  have  Raynal's  blood  on  my  hands — 
the  dog  !  Then  when  the  grand  hallali  begins  to  die  out,  I'll 
apply  for  my  divorce,  and  revive  it  all  once  more.  Ah,  deli 
cious  !  And  then  by  and  by,  perhaps,  I'll  marry  again — 
some  queen  of  a  girl  dead  in  love  with  the  rich  Mr.  Lafitte, 
the  handsome  Mr.  Lafitte,  the  gentle  and  courteous  Mr.  La 
fitte-,  with  the  steel  claw  in  the  velvet  paw.  Ah  !  and  if 
Fatima  isn't  docile,  Bluebeard  will  take  her  into  the  Blue 
Chamber  where  Josephine  had  a  little  private  experience. 
Good,  good  !  Lafitte,  you  gay  dog,  you  are  positively  witty  !" 

Wagging  his  wicked  head  to  himself,  he  walked  slowly  up 
and  down,  laughing  softly  and  smoothly,  with  his  face  bent 
toward  the  carpet.  He  stopped  his  walk  in  a  minute  or  two, 
and  the  smile  on  his  visage  faded  slowly  into  a  look  of  sullen 
and  evil  moodiness. 

"  The  revenge  is  sweet,"  he  muttered,  "  but  there  is  gall  in 
it.  She  has  escaped  from  her  hell  with  me,  and  she  will  be 
happy  with  Raynal.  Yes,  there  in  that  lovely  Italy,  far  away 
from  all  the  howls  of  the  slandering  curs,  she  will  be  happy 
with  Raynal.  For  he  loves  her,  and  they  are  both  young 
still,  and  she  is  beautiful,  and  will  be  fond  and  sweet,  and  he  is 
tender  to  women,  and  manly — bah  !  I  hate  him  1" 

He  walked  up  and  down  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes,  with 
an  evil  and  moody  face,  and  finally  paused  with  his  gloomy 
eyes  fixed  on  vacancy. 

"  People  will  rave  at  them,"  he  muttered,  "  but  what  mat 
ter  is  it  what  people  will  say  !  Fools  !  Look  at  it.  What 
was  she  ?  The  prey  of  my  lust — the  victim  of  my  cruelty. 
God  !  I  will  not  lie  to  myself  whoever  else  I  lie  to  !  That  is 
just  what  she  was.  I  won  her,  a  young,  inexperienced,  inno 
cent  girl — she  lived  with  me  as  she  did,  and  they  call  it  holy 
matrimony.  She  flies  now  from  lust  and  cruelty  to  love  and 
tenderness,  and  they  call  it  adultery.  Oh,  world,  world, 
world  1  Should  I  have  been  what  I  am,  if  you  had  not  been 


HARRINGTON.  411 

what  you  are  !  Damn  you  !  you  have  ruined  me  ! — from  my 
very  cradle  you  have  ruined  me  !  I  hate  you — I  despise  you 
— I  have  grown  up  hating  and  despising  you — soured,  and 
corrupted,  and  depraved  by  you — and  I  shall  be  glad  when 
this  wretched  candle  of  a  life  goes  out  in  the  blackness  of 
darkness  forever.  Well,  well  !  Be  happy,  Josephine,  with 
your  Raynal.  I  hate  you  both,  and  what  I  can  do  to  harm 
you  I  will." 

He  sat  down  near  the  table,  and  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand. 
As  he  did  so,  a  tap  came  to  the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  he  snarled. 

It  was  a  servant,  who  said  a  gentleman  wanted  to  see  him. 

"  What's  his  name  ?     No  matter.     Show  him  up." 

With  an  uneasy,  furtive  glance  at  him,  the  man  departed,  and 
in  two  or  three  minutes  appeared  again  with  Captain  Bangham. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want  ?"  snarled  Lafitte,  the  moment 
he  appeared.  "  Have  you  found  that  curse,  Antony  ?" 

The  captain  looked  savage  and  sullen  at  this  reception,  and 
hated  Lafitte  ten  times  worse  than  ever,  while,  at  the  same 
time,  he  was  afraid  of  him. 

"No,  I  haven't  found  him,"  he  said,  snappishly.  "  I've  been 
two  or  three  times  up  where  that  Roux  lives,  and  he's  not 
there,  and  nobody  knows  where  he  is  ;  and  as  for  the  other,  I 
can't  get  any  clue  to  him." 

Mr.  Lafitte  rose  from  his  chair,  and  with  glossy,  tigerish 
eyes,  and  a  ferocious  face,  advanced  upon  Bangham,  who 
winced  a  little  as  he  came,  as  if  he  would  like  to  run  from  the 
room  but  for  the  shame  of  it.  Bullies  are  not  always  cowards, 
but  this  bully  was. 

"  Hark  you,  Bangham,"  said  Mr.  Lafitte,  in  a  low,  smooth 
voice,  "  I'm  going  home  in  the  first  train,  and  you  may  tell 
Atkins  I've  gone,  for  I  shan't  see  him  again.  That  Roux  I 
don't  want,  so  let  him  alone.  But  you  find  Antony  for  me,  or 
look  out.  You're  in  a  fix,  my  captain,  and  you  know  it.  You 
can't  bring  any  evidence  against  the  presumption  of  the  law 
that  you  willfully  refused  to  return  that  slave.  Where  are  your 
witnesses  to  the  contrary  ?  Your  mate  has  left  Atkins's  em 
ploy — your  sailors  don't  go  back  to  New  Orleans  with  you. 


412  HARRINGTON. 

You  know  the  penalty  for  not  bringing  back  a  slave  you  find 
on  board  your  brig — from  three  to  seven  years  in  prison,  and 
the  payment  of  the  full  value  of  the  slave  ;  and  I'll  set  that 
value  high,  Bangham,  you  may  depend.  Let  your  brig  touch 
the  Levee  again  and  he  not  on  board,  and  I'll  make  you  suffer 
to  the  full  extent  of  my  power,  and  spread  stories  around  which 
will  ruin  Atkins  in  New  Orleans  for  good.  Mind  what  I  say 
to  you.  Now  go." 

At  the  haughty  mandate  of  the  Southerner,  spoken  with  an 
outstretched  finger,  as  though  he  was  ordering  away  his 
meanest  slave,  Bangham  slunk  from  the  room  without  a 
word. 

"  Whelp,"  snarled  Lafitte,  walking  away  from  the  door 
with  a  shrug  of  contempt.  "  Yes,  I'll  let  Roux  go.  I  owe 
so  much  to  that  good  fool,  Harrington,  I  suppose .  Curse  me, 
if  I  don't  almost  hate  myself  for  liking  that  fellow  !  There's 
another  happy  pair.  He  and  that  bright  creature  will  be 
marrying  presently,  and  going  in  for  domestic  felicity  with  a 
rush.  Blast  them,  I  hope  they'll  be  miserable  together 
through  life,  and  I  wish  I  could  make  them  so  !  Well — now 
to  pack  up  and  leave  this  cursed  city  for  home.  I  burn  to  get 
at  my  black  cattle  again,  and  ease  my  heart  of  its  hatred  on 
them.  I  hate  them  and  they  hate  me,  and  life  is  thick  and 
sweet  with  hate.  Oh,  but  I'll  work,  and  flog,  and  torture 
them  worse  than  ever  now  !  Thanks  to  the  blessed  laws  of 
Louisiana,  I  can  do  it,  as  long  as  the  glorious  Union  lasts. 
Till  these  northern  curs  dissolve  that,  my  rule  is  secure,  but 
when  they  do,  if  they  ever  do,  'ware  Lafitte,  'ware  my  Southern 
brethren,  for  the  black  worm  will  turn,  and  hey  for  St. 
Domingo  !" 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

REVELATIONS. 


WITHERLEE  had  not  left  the  house  in  Temple  street  but  a 
little  while,  when  a  couple  of  ladies,  intimate  with  the  family, 


HAKKINGTON.  4:13 

who  had  seen  the  news  of  the  marriage  in  the  morning  paper, 
called,  on  a  visit  of  congratulation.  Presently  more  came, 
and  up  to  one  o'clock  there  was  a  dropping  shower  of  callers. 
Last  of  all  arrived  Miss  Bean,  a  fat  and  spectacled  childish  old 
maiden  lady,  with  a  prude's  face — the  same  who,  when  poor 
Susan  Hollingsworth  was  being  flayed  alive  at  Mrs.  Bing- 
hampton's  party,  had  brought  ignominy  on  her  defender,  young 
Mr.  Mill,  by  inquiring  if  he  was  going  to  come  out  in  favor  of 
Mormonism.  Received  graciously,  and  having  found  out  all 
she  could  about  Mr.  Harrington,  and  that  the  newly  married 
couple  were  not  going  on  a  bridal  tour,  and  that  there  was  to 
be  no  reception,  but  that  everybody  was  expected  to  call  with 
out  formality,  Miss  Bean  waddled  off,  and,  as  Muriel  expected 
she  would  do,  never  rested  till  she  had  gone  the  entire  round 
of  her  acquaintance,  and  spread  the  information  she  had 
received  to  the  remotest  borders  of  society. 

Left  alone,  Harrington  and  Muriel,  accompanied  by  Went- 
worth  and  Emily,  went  to  call  on  the  tabooed  Hollingsworths, 
and  returned  in  about  an  hour  in  great  satisfaction.  None  but 
Muriel,  however,  knew  the  sweetest  part  of  that  visit  ;  for 
poor  Susan  not  appearing  in  the  parlor,  Muriel  had  begged  to 
see  her,  and  at  last  had  been  admitted  to  the  sad  chamber  of 
her  humiliation  and  anguish.  And  there,  with  all  fond  endear 
ment,  and  sweet,  wise  words  of  sympathy  and  counsel,  Muriel 
had  cheered  and  comforted  her,  and  prevailed  on  her  to  make 
the  visit.  It  was  not  a  deed  that  the  lofty  rectitude  of  a  Bean 
or  a  Binghampton  could  approve  ;  but  alas,  the  beautiful 
blonde  was  not  a  Friend  of  Virtue  1 

That  Susan  was  to  make  the  visit,  and  that  she  was  to  come 
some  time  next  week,  was  all  that  anybody  but  Susan  and 
Muriel  knew,  but  that  was  enough  to  set  the  party  in  a  state 
of  great  gratification,  and  in  that  state  they  arrived  again  at 
Temple  street. 

Wentworth  had  been  prevailed  upon  to  spend  the  day,  and 
after  dinner,  Harrington  having  said  to  him,  "  Richard,  you 
are  interested  in  Hungarian  fugitives,  come  with  us  and  see 
some  fugitives  of  another  color,"  they  had  all  gone  up-stairs, 
Mrs.  Eastman  included,  to  listen  to  the  story  of  Antony. 


414  HARRINGTON. 

It  was  a  story  till  then  untold  to  any  of  them,  even  to  Har 
rington  ;  for  in  Antony's  weak  health,  and  amidst  the  thick- 
crowding  excitements  and  interests  of  the  four  preceding  days, 
time  and  opportunity  had  been  wanting.  Now,  however,  they 
had  come,  and  the  story  was  told. 

A  touching  and  an  awful  story.  The  story  of  a  man  who 
had  fled  for  Liberty  or  Death  through  the  malignant  horrors  of 
a  Southern  fen,  with  the  hounds  and  hunters  of  a  pirate  civi 
lization  on  his  trail,  and  who  had  lain  for  weeks  like  years,  in 
cold,  and  stench,  and  hunger,  with  rats  and  vermin  swarming 
over  him,  in  the  black  and  filthy  antre  of  a  Northern  vessel's 
hold,  with  a  Northern  ruffian  to  maltreat  him  daily  in  his 
wasting  torture  ;  earning  thus,  with  pangs  and  fears  that  free 
men  never  know,  his  right  to  the  freedom  Nature  gave  him  for 
his  own. 

A  touching  and  an  awful  story,  whose  dread  reality  had  a 
haggard,  haunting  shadow,  more  dreadful  than  itself.  For 
the  man's  childish  imagination  had  been  unnaturally  wrought 
upon,  and  his  tale  involved  a  flickering  and  ghostly  sense  that 
he  had  been  in  Hell,  and  that  his  tormentors  were  not  men  but 
devils.  He  did  not  aver  it,  but  it  was  strangely  and  inde 
finably  implied  in  his  grotesque  narration,  and  reached  the 
minds  of  his  auditors.  Was  he  wrong  ?  He  had  suffered 
much  ;  his  reason  had  been  a  little  shaken  by  his  awful  ex 
periences  ;  his  superstitious,  childish  fancy  had  been  insanely 
stirred.  And  yet — was  he  wrong  ? 

As  people  emerging  from  some  dark  cavern  into  the  glad 
light  of  day,  so  from  the  room  of  the  fugitive,  came  the  five 
again  into  the  cheerful  library.  Muriel's  face  was  grave  and 
dreamful ;  Harrington  .was  sad  and  silent ;  Mrs.  Eastman 
wore  a  disturbed  look  ;  Emily  seemed  a  little  frightened,  and 
Wentworth  was  red  with  indignation. 

They  took  their  seats  again  without  speaking,  and  for  a 
minute  or  two  nothing  was  said. 

"  Well,  Richard,"  said  Harrington,  at  length,  "  what  do 
you  think  now  of  Hungarian  fugitives  as  objects  of  sympathy, 
compared  with  fugitives  like  that  up-stairs  ?" 

"  Oh  bother  Hungarian  fugitives  V9.    blurted  Wentworth. 


HARRINGTON. 


415 


11  Here's  Hungarians,  as  John  Randolph  said  of  the  Greeks, 
at  our  very  doors.  After  hearing  that  man's  story,  I  can't 
help  losing  my  admiration  for  Kossuth.  You  know  he  cen 
sured  the  editor  Gyurman,  his  countryman,  for  writing  against 
slavery,  and  I  thought  once  he  was  right  ;  but,  by  Jupiter,  a 
man  who  knows  anything  about  slavery,  as  I  do  now,  and 
doesn't  become  a  red-hot  Abolitionist,  has  a  stone  in  the 
place  where  his  heart  ought  to  be",  or  I'm  a  Dutchman." 

"  Well,"  returned  Harrington,  laughing  at  Richard's  vehe 
mence,  "  don't  go  too  far  the  other  way,  dear  Raffaello.  We 
must  feel  for  the  Hungarians  too,  you  know.  As  for  Kos 
suth,  his  only  fault  is,  that  he's  so  much  of  a  patriot,  that  he's 
willing  to  flatter  American  tyranny  to  serve  Hungary.  It's 
wrong  and  weak,  but  let  us  still  aspire  for  Hungarian  inde 
pendence  as  for  American  liberty." 

"  I  agree,"  replied  Wentworth.  "  But  how  did  you  co;n-j 
across  this  poor  fellow,  Harrington  ?" 

"  I  was  out  on  a  nocturnal  ramble,"  replied  Harrington, 
"  and  I  found  him  in  the  street,  just  escaped  from  the  brig, 
and  took  him  home  with  me." 

"  Yes,  Richard,"  said  Mrs.  Eastman,  quickly  ;  "  but  you 
don't  know  all  John  did  for  him.  He  "• 

"  Now,  mother,"  pleaded  Harrington,  coloring,  "  don't 
mention  that — please  don't." 

"  I'll  tell  you,  Richard,  sometime  when  John  is  out  of  the 
way,"  said  Muriel,  archly  confidential.  "  No  objections, 
John  !  We'll  spare  your  modesty,  and  satisfy  Richard's  curi 
osity,  and  you  are  to  know  nothing  about  it." 

"  And  my  curiosity,  too,"  said  Emily,  laughing. 

"  And  yours  too,"  replied  Muriel. 

"  Well,  I  must  say  that  that  was  very  noble  in  John,"  said 
Went  worth.  "  But  he's  always  " 

"  No  nobler  than  you're  giving  poor  Yukovich  house-room 
till  he  found  another  friend  in  Bagasse,"  broke  in  Harrington, 
laughing  and  coloring. 

"Peuh  I"  said  Wentworth,  blushing.  "  How  did  you  find 
that  out  ?  No  matter — he  was  only  a  Hungarian.  But  this- 


416  HAEBINGTON. 

poor  fellow — oh,  what  an  account  for  a  man  to  have  to  give 
of  himself  !  It  actually  made  my  blood  boil." 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Harrington,  "  we  must  try  and  discover 
the  name  of  that  captain,  and  have  this  piece  of  infamy 
properly  made  public.  I  can't  help  fancying  that  Antony  is 
wrong  about  the  name  of  the  brig.  The  brig  Solomon. 
Isn't  Solomon  an  odd  or  unusual  name  for  a  vessel  ?  Solo 
mon — Solomon.  But  still — I  don't  know  ;  she  may  be  named 
for  her  owner.  I  wonder  who  he  is — for  this  rascality  must 
have  been  known  to  him,  and  we  must  hold  him  responsible 
to  the  public  for  it,  too." 

Muriel,  who  was  abstractedly  thinking,  suddenly  started, 
then  closed  her  parted  lips,  and  reflected  again,  with  a  painful 
color  stealing  over  her  countenance. 

"  John,"  said  she  in  a  low  voice,  "  an  idea  occurs  to  me. 
You  remember  that  stevedore,  Driscoll.  Wasn't  it  on  a  brig 
that  he  broke  his  leg  ?" 

"  Yes,"  returned  Harrington,  wondering  what  she  meant. 
"  It  was  on  one  of  your  uncle's  vessels." 

"  And  don't  you  remember  the  name  of  that  brig  ?  It  was 
the  brig  Soliman." 

Mrs.  Eastman  started  violently,  and  turned  pale,  while  the 
color  came  like  red  fire  to  the  face  of  Harrington. 

"  Heavens  1"  exclaimed  the  pale  lady,  clasping  her  hands. 
"  Oh,  I  hope  you  are  wrong  !  I  hope  Lemuel  has  not  been 
lending  himself  to  such  work  as  this." 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  said  Harrington,  springing  up  and  leav 
ing  the  room. 

He  went  up-stairs  to  the  chamber  of  the  fugitives.  Roux 
and  Antony  were  sitting  near  each  other,  and  Tugmutton  was 
reading  to  them  in  his  usual  grandiloquent  way. 

"Antony,"  said  Harrington,  "what  did  you  say  the  name 
of  that  brig  was  ?" 

The  fugitive,  still  lean  and  haggard,  but  wonderfully  un 
proved  in  aspect,  stared  at  him  with  his  hollow  eyes  and  skull- 
like  visage  for  a  moment. 

11  Brig  Solomon,  Marster  Harrington,"  he  replied,  quickly. 


HARRINGTON. 


417 


"  You  say  you  read  the  name  of  the  brig  when  you  were 
in  the  water,  before  you  boarded  her  ?" 

"  Yes,  Marster." 

"  Can  you  spell  the  name  you  read  ?     Spell  it  for  me." 

"  Yes,  Marster.     S-o-1,  sol,  i,  solo,  m-a-n  mon,  Solomon." 

"  You're  sure  that  was  the  way  it  was  spelled." 

"  Yes,  Marster." 

"  Very  well,"  and  Harrington  turned  to  go. 

"  But  that's  not  the  way  to  spell  Solomon,"  bawled  Tug- 
mutton. 

No  more  it's  not,  thought  Harrington,  as  he  slowly  went 
down-stairs — but  that's  the  spelling.  0  Lemuel  Atkins  ! 

He  entered  the  library  with  a  face  so  grave  that  they  all 
saw  what  he  had  to  tell. 

"  You  are  right,  Muriel,"  he  said,  sinking  heavily  into  his 
chair.  "  It  is  the  Soliman." 

Mrs.  Eastman  burst  into  tears. 

"  My  dear  mother  !"  cried  Muriel,  flying  to  her  sMe,  and 
folding  her  in  her  arms,  while  the  astonished  and  agitated 
Emily  also  came  to  her. 

"  No  matter,"  said  Mrs.  Eastman,  suddenly  recovering,  and 
gently  pushing  them  from  her,  while  her  pale  face  became  se 
vere.  "  It  was  but  a  moment's  pain,  and  I  am  now  filled  with 
indignation.  To  think  that  Lemuel,  my  own  brother,  would 
join  in  oppressing  that  poor  creature — oh,  I  cannot  bear  to 
think  of  it  !  I  feel  it  as  if  it  were  my  own  sin.  I  am  dis 
graced  by  it.  Every  action  of  his,  in  his  pro-slavery  mania, 
rests  on  me  like  a  disgrace  that  I  cannot  bear.  But  this  is 
the  worst  of  all." 

"  My  dear  mother,"  said  Harrington,  approaching,  and  tak 
ing  her  hands  in  his,  "  let  it  all  go.  Fortunately,  Antony  has 
escaped  from  their  clutches,  and  the  worst  is  over.  We  will 
do  nothing  more  about  it,  but  let  it  rest  in  silence.  You  can 
not  help  your  brother's  misconduct,  and  are  not  in  any  way 
responsible  for  it,  though  I  can  well  understand  how  it  should 
grieve  you." 

"  It  ought  to  be  made  public,  John,"  she  answered  tremu 
lously,  with  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  "  and  it  would  be  for  his  good 

18* 


418  HABEINGTON. 

if  he  were  taught,  by  the  indignation  of  at  least  a  portion  of 
the  people,  that  such  things  cannot  be  done  with  impunity. 
Heaven  forgive  me,  if  I  fail  in  my  duty,  but  I  cannot  help 
shrinking  from  the  public  outcry,  and  he  my  own  brother." 

She  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  as  Harrington  sadly 
withdrew  to  his  chair. 

"  But,  look  here,  now,"  said  Wentworth,  "  aren't  you  all  too 
fast  ?  There  may  be  another  brig  Soliman,  you  know." 

"  Perhaps,"  replied  Harrington  ;  "  but  I  fear  not.  •  It  is 
unlikely,  I  think,  that  two  vessels  of  the  same  name  would  be 
in  the  New  Orleans  cotton  trade." 

"  Who  is  this  Driscoll,  John  ?"  asked  Emily. 

"  Driscoll  is  a  stevedore,"  he  replied,  "  who  fell  into  the  hold 
of  the  Soliman,  last  winter,  as  they  were  unlading,  and  broke 
his  leg.  I  heard  of  the  accident  through  Captain  Fisher,  who 
happened  to  be  on  the  spot  and  knew  the  man,  and  as  he  had 
a  family  who  were  thus  deprived  of  their  means  of  support  till 
he  got  avell,  I  made  bold  to  call  on  them,  and  Muriel  and  Mrs. 
Eastman  took  care '  of  the  poor  people  till  Driscoll  got  well, 
and  was  able  to  work  again.  Of  course,  I  recollected  him, 
but  the  name  of  the  vessel  on  which  he  met  with  his  accident, 
though  I  knew  Mr.  Atkins  was  her  owner,  had  slipped  my 
mind." 

"  Oh,  John,"  said  Emily,  impetuously,  "  how  like  you  !" 

"  What  ?  To  forget  the  name  ?"  said  Harrington,  inno 
cently,  misled  by  her  tone.  "  Indeed,  no.  I  usually  remem 
ber  names  very  well " 

"  'Psha  !  no,"  replied  Emily,  laughing  at  his  simplicity. 
"  But  to  visit  the  poor  man,  and  have  his  family  taken  care  of. 
You,  a  perfect  stranger  to  them  all.  Now,  I  should  like  to 
know  who  beside  you  would  have  felt  called  upon  to  interest 
himself  in  such  a  matter  ?" 

"  Oh,  pooh  !  A  mere  trifle,"  said  Harrington,  reddening, 
and  looking  extremely  uncomfortable.  "  Hundreds  of  people 
would  have  done  the  same  thing.  It  was  Mrs.  Eastman  and 
Muriel  who  did  the  real  work  in  this  case.  So,  you  see,  there 
are  more  more  willing  hearts  and  hands  than  mine  in  the 
world." 


HARRINGTON.  419 

"  I  wonder  if  my  grand  Lord  Bacon,  Baron  Yerulam,  and 
Viscount  St.  Albans  would  have  interested  himself  in  the  ple 
beian  Driscolls,"  said  Wentworth,  slily,  aiming  a  hit  at  Har 
rington's  favorite. 

"  Indeed  he  would,"  replied  Harrington,  with  great  anima 
tion.  "  It  is  recorded  of  him  that  no  case  of  distress  ever 
came  under  his  notice  without  being  promptly  relieved.  Ye 
rulam  played  Providence  well,  till  the  bloat  king,  and  the 
pack  of  Conservatives  ruined  him.  Yes,  till  then,  and  after 
ward,  till  he  left  the  globe.  Bacon  was  the  Theodore  Parker 
of  his  time,  plus  the  Yerulamio-Shakspearean  intellect — so  don't 
you  say  one  word  in  his  dispraise,  Master  Wentworth,  or  you 
and  I  shall  quarrel." 

Wentworth  laughed  at  the  gay  threat,  and  said  no  more. 

"  Revenons  a  nos  moutons — let  us  return  to  our  South- 
downs,"  said  Muriel,  playfully.  "  I  had  a  talk  with  Roux, 
John,  of  which  I  was  going  to  tell  you  when  our  company 
came  this  morning,  and  I  haven't  had  a  chance  since.  The 
sum  and  substance  of  which  is,  that  Roux  is  alive  to  his  dan 
ger  in  Boston,  and  consents  to  go  to  Worcester.  So  on 
Monday,  John,  you  must  transport  him  and  Antony  there, 
find  them  a  boarding-house,  see  Mr.  Higginson  about  them, 
and  let  them  be  looking  out  for  a  house  and  occupation,  while 
we  arrange  to  send  on  the  wife  and  children  after  them.  So 
there's  work  laid  out  for  you,  my  husband  !" 

"  Bravo  !"  cried  Harrington,  joyfully.     "  I'll  attend  to  it." 

"  In  the  meantime,"  pursued  Muriel,  "  we'll  put  Roux  on 
salary  sufficient  to  cover  all  expenses  till  he  gets  settled 
again.  Then,  there's  his  shop  to  be  closed  up,  and  his  furni 
ture  to  be  removed,  all  which  is  on  your  broad  shoulders,  my 
Atlas." 

"  I'll  bear  the  load !"  said  Harrington,  gaily. 

"  For  it  won't  do  to  have  Roux  burdened  with  it,"  she  con 
tinued,  "  lest  in  his  removing  he  should  be  removed." 

"  See  here.  Can't  I  help  ?"  put  in  Weutworth.  "  I  burn 
with  ardor." 

"  Oh,  Raffaello  !  bantered  Muriel,  with  a  gay  and  charm 
ing  smile — "  you  ?  Flower  of  painters,  I  fear  me  that  you 


420  HAEEINGTON. 

will  not  find  such  anti-slavery  service  to  your  taste  1  How 
ever,  we  will  see.  Yes,  Richard,  seriously,  you  shall  help  if 
you  want  to." 

"  Good  1"  said  Wentworth,  laughingly.  "  What  a  nest 
of  traitors  to  the  blessed  old  granny  of  a  Government  we 
are  !" 

"  My  faith  I"  said  Muriel,  with  bewitching  levity,  "  if  they 
will  have  their  Fugitive  Slave  Law,  they  shall  also  have  their 
traitors  to  balance.  But  there  was  once  a  time,"  she  fervently 
added,  "when  a  poor  man  could  earn  his  bread  in  the  city 
which  I  love,  with  none  to  molest  him  or  make  him  afraid,  and 
may  that  good  time  come  again.'7 

"  Amen  1"  cried  Wentworth.  "  And,  apropos,  have  any 
of  you  seen  the  papers  to-day  ?  Have  you  heard  the  great 
news  ?" 

"  I  have  not,"  said  Muriel. 

*  Nor  I,"  said  Harrington.     "  What  is  it  ?" 

"  It  came  yesterday,"  replied  Wentworth,  "  but  to-day's 
paper  has  a  fuller  account  of  it.  Charles  Sumner  has 
announced  in  the  Senate  that  he  is  going  to  speak  on  the 
Fugitive  Slave  Law  !  Hurrah  !" 

"  lo  triumphe  !"  cried  Muriel,  flying  from  the  room  to  get 
the  paper,  amidst  a  general  chorus  of  delight. 

She  came  back  presently  with  the  "  Commonwealth,"  and 
read  aloud  Mr.  Summer's  brief  remarks  on  presenting  the: 
petition  of  the  New  England  Quakers  for  the  repeal  of  the 
Fugitive  Slave  Law — remarks  which  were  the  prelude  to  one 
of  the  ablest  and  noblest  speeches  ever  heard  in  the  American 
Congress. 

"  Bravo  !"  cried  Harrington,  when  she  had  finished.  "  Now 
we  shall  hear  the  old  New  England  voice  !" 

"  By  Jupiter,  yes,"  said  Wentworth.  "  Charles  Sumner's 
going  in.  It'll  be  like  a  giant  slinging  up  an  elephant  by  the 
tail,  and  whacking  the  enemy  with  it." 

They  all  laughed  uproariously  at  this  novel  symbol  of 
aggressive  eloquence. 

"  Come  now,"  said  Wentworth,  when  the  laughter  had  sub 
sided,  "  this  news  calls,  upon  us  to  round  up  Saturday  night 


HARRINGTON.  421 

with  music.  Sing,  you  pair  of  seraphs,  sing.  Let's  have 
Theodore  Korner's  '  Battle-Hymn  of  the  Berlin  Landsturm.' " 
Muriel  and  Emily  moved  to  the  organ,  and  on  the  rich  and 
passionate  clouds  of  Weber's  music,  their  noble  voices  stormed 
in  melody.  But  as  the  first  exalting  tones  arose,  Mrs.  East 
man,  sad  and  sick  at  heart,  withdrew  to  her  chamber,  to 
think  with  sorrow  of  her  brother's  baseness,  to  think  and 
think  and  think,  and  weep  alone. 


CHAPTER    XXYII1. 

THE      SABBATH      MORNING. 

THE  Sabbath  dawned  calm  and  peaceful  and  beautiful,  and 
filled  with  Sabbatic  stillness.  Such  a  Sabbath  as  would  have 
waked  the  holy  muse  of  Donne  or  Herbert,  of  Keble  or  He- 
ber,  to  celebrate  its  restful  sanctity  in  sacred  song.  But  its 
sweetest  hymn  was  the  gracious  face  of  Muriel,  as  she  sat  at 
the  organ  in  the  library,  singing  in  a  low  voice  a  psalm  that 
breathed  from  heaven  into  the  soul  of  David  three  thousand 
years  ago. 

The  spirit  of  the  music  lived  in  her  countenance  as  she  sang, 
and  lingered  there  when  the  tender  and  regal  chant  had  failed. 
Too  happy  for  even  music  to  express,  she  rose  from  the  instru 
ment,  and  rapt  in  heavenly  reverie,'  wandered  to  and  fro  about 
the  room. 

But  a  little  while,  however,  for  presently  the  bounding  foot 
of  Harrington  was  heard  upon  the  stairs,  and  he  came  in. 

"  Ah,  truant  1"  she  playfully  exclaimed,  gliding  to  his  arms, 
and  gazing  up  into  his  smiling  face,  "  where  have  you  been.  I 
woke  this  morning  to  find  myself  a  widow.  Now  give  me  the 
morning  kiss  of  which  I  was  defrauded." 

He  folded  her  in  his  arms,  and  fondly  kissed  her  again  and 
again. 

"  I  have  been  to  my  house,"  he  said,  "  and  do  you  know 


422  HARRINGTON. 

why  ?  To  see  after  my  dog.  Positively,  I  had  almost  forgot 
ten  the  existence  of  that  delectable  animal,  and  my  conscience 
smote  me  this  morning  lest  he  should  have  been  neglected, 
which  he  has  not  been,  for  the  boys  have  been  his  guardians. 
So  I  stole  from  your  side  like  a  thief  of  the  night.  You  were 
sleeping  so  sweetly,  and  looked  so  beautiful  in  your  sleep,  that 
I  did  not  dare  to  disturb  you.  Strange  feeling  I  had  in  leav 
ing  you — it  was  almost  like  going  never  to  return." 

"  And  I,  too,"  she  replied,  melting,  from  her  blushing  smile 
into  musing.  "  I  woke  from  a  singular  dream  of  you.  I 
dreamed  that  I  was  going  about  alone  in  the  house  and  in  the 
streets  and  among  all  sorts  of  people,  and  you  were  at  an  im 
measurable  distance  above  me,  looking  at  me  constantly  from 
behind  the  air,  as  it  were.  The  strangest  thing  was  that  I 
could  not  see.  you,  though  at  the  same  time  I  knew  you  were 
there  just  as  if  I  saw  you.  But  we  were  separated.  And  yet 
I  was  not  sad — indeed,  the  dream  was  happy.  Presently  I 
unclosed  my  eyes,  and  for  a  moment,"  she  said,  laughing,  "  I 
really  felt  as  if  1  were  a  widow,  which  I  have  no  ambition  to 
be,  I  assure  you." 

Harrington  laughed  gaily,  and  pressed  his  lips  to  her  fore 
head. 

"  Dreams  are  strange,"  he  said,  lightly.  "  Bat  how  exqui 
site  you  are  this  morning  !  Every  time  I  see  you  you  look 
new.  Stand  back  a  pace,  and  let  me  admire  you  I" 

She  danced  back  a  couple  of  yards,  and  stood  playfully  re 
garding  him,  with  her  beautiful  and  noble  head  bent  a  little  on 
one  side,  while  his  eyes  dwelt  on  her  delicately  tinted  features, 
and  wandered  over  the  stately  elegance  of  her  form.  She 
was  robed  that  morning  in  pale  rose-colored  silk,  with  lace 
corsage  and  lace  open  sleeves.  About  her  hung  that  indefina 
ble  and  delicious  patrician  odor  which  we  sometimes  perceive 
around  the  persons  of  fair  women,  and  which  touches  the  ima 
gination  like  the  aroma  of  a  poetic  nobility  of  soul.  A  thrill 
fled  through  the  veins  of  Harrington  as  he  gazed  on  her,  and 
then  his  eyes  grew  sad,  and  the  smile  on  his  face  died  slowly 
away. 

"  Ah,  Muriel,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  rapt  voice,  "  the  beauty 


HARRINGTON.  423 

that  my  eyes  see  in  you  is  the  token  of  the  beauty  my  soul 
knows  in  you.  How  could  I  bear  to  leave  you  !  Once  it  was 
a  joy  to  think  of  death,  but  now  heaven  could  not  tempt  me 
from  earth  with  you." 

She  came  quickly  to  him,  with  an  agitated  face,  and  pas 
sionately  clung  to  him.  He  folded  her  to  his  breast,  and  felt, 
as  his  face  drooped  upon  her  forehead,  a  vague  sense,  as  of 
some  luminous  shadow  resting  on  them.  In  a  moment,  she 
lifted  her  face  to  his,  serene,  though  the  clear  eyes  were  dim, 
and  gazed  ardently  into  his  countenance. 

"  Do  not  speak  of  leaving  me,  John,"  she  said.  "  It  was 
my  foolish  dream  put  that  into  your  mind.  Ah,  we  shall 
neither  of  us  leave  each  other.  Life  is  before  us,  and  love. 
Come,  let  us  not  dwell  on  this,  but  speak  of  other  things." 

"  So  be  it,"  he  replied.  "  Well,  what  shall  we  do  with  our 
selves  to-day  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  gaily  answered,  swinging  around  from 
his  breast  to  his  side,  and  putting  her  arm  about  him,  while  he 
encircled  her  waist.  *•'  Suppose  we  vary  the  general  impiety  of 
our  proceedings  by  going  to  church." 

"  Agreed.     To  Mr.  Parker's,  of  course." 

"  Most  assuredly.     There's  the  breakfast  bell." 

And,  arm  in  arm,  they  descended  to  the  breakfast-room. 

Church-time  came,  with  the  aerial  pealing  of  bells,  and  with 
it  came  Wentworth,  in  gallant  and  perfumed  attire,  to  convoy 
Emily  to  her  devotions.  Emily,  however,  had  decided  to  go 
with  Harrington  and  Muriel,  and  presently  they  all  set  out 
together,  Mrs.  Eastman,  who  had  recovered  her  serenity, 
accompanying  them. 

The  streets  were  full  of  church-goers,  some  of  them  haply 
wending  their  way  to  be  regaled  with  exhortations  to  obey  all 
laws,  right  or  wrong,  especially  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law,  and 
to  consent,  if  need  be,  to  have  their  brothers  go  into  slavery 
to  save  the  Union.  In  that  blissful  period,  it  was  agreed, 
among  all  respectable  people,  that  ministers  must  not  meddle 
with  politics,  unless  they  were  pro-slavery  politics,  which  were 
considered  perfectly  orthodox,  doulos  of.  Christ  having  been 
ascertained  to  mean,  not  servant,  but  slave  of  Christ,  and  Paul 


424:  HARRINGTON. 

having  been  proved  to  have  sent  back  Onesimtis,  not  at  all  as 
a  brother  beloved,  but  as  a  runaway  Thomas  Sims.  The  sedu 
lous  inculcation  of  these  soul-elevating  views  and  this  cheering 
exegesis  of  Scripture,  was  understood  to  be  in  perfect  harmony 
with  the  dictum  that  ministers  musn't  meddle  with  politics,  and 
many  ministers  conducted  themselves  accordingly. 

Debarred  by  their  own  hardness  and  frowardness  of  heart 
from  the  holy  solace  of  these  ministrations,  our  little  party 
held  their  perverse  way  to  the  Melodeon.  The  choir  was 
singing  as  they  entered,  and  the  church  was  crowded  as  usual, 
for  no  minister  in  Boston  gathered  such  a  concourse  as  the 
mighty  Theodore.  A  little  movable  pulpit,  on  which  bloomed 
a  vase  of  flowers,  occupied  the  platform,  and  behind  it,  with 
clasped  hands,  musing,  sat  he  who  shall  heave  his  noble 
thought  in  massive  mountain-chains  of  strength  and  beauty 
never  any  more.  Living,  his  presence  was  the  magic  spell  that 
evoked  and  commanded  Freedom.  Oh,  dying,  was  it  less 
strong — less  strong  when  he  had  died  ?  Lo  !  he  drew  nigh 
the  shores  of  Italy,  and  she  rose,  in  the  red  storm  of  Magenta, 
from  the  bondage  of  ten  centuries,  free  !  He  laid  him  down 
to  sleep  in  the  soil  of  her  Florence,  and  pale  and  radiant  from 
her  long  agony,  all  disenchanted  of  her  doom,  she  stands 
above  his  dust,  bastioned  with  hearts  and  swords,  free  !  Free, 
and  free  forever,  and  secure  of  ever-broadening  freedom,  for 
the  land  can  never  rest  in  tyranny  that  holds  within  its  bosom 
Parker's  grave  ! 

There  are  thousands  who  remember  those  Sabbaths  in  his 
presence  ;  but  who  shall  paint  them  in  hues  that  will  not  .seem 
faint  and  unfaithful  in  the  light  of  memory  ?  What  words 
shall  revive  his  image  as  he  stood  behind  the  little  pulpit — 
Socratic-featured,  strong,  earnest,  reverend — the  large  volume 
of  old  Scripture  open  before  him,  the  tinted  flowers  blooming 
by  his  side,  the  faces  of  thousands  all  mutely  turned  toward 
him,  as  once  toward  Luther,  Savonarola,  Abelard  ?  What 
words  shall  tell  of  the  firm  eyes  holding  all  those  faces,  the 
resolute  features  stirring,  the  orotund  and  fervent  deep  voice 
sounding,  as  he  read  from  the  sacred  pages,  lifting  the  verses 
into  their  fullest  significance  and  life,  and  flooding  the  soul 


HAEEINGTON.  425 

4 

with  all  that  is  loftiest  and  sweetest  in  the  old  saints  and  pro 
phets'  lore  ?  Who  shall  bring  back  the  hours  when,  as  in  that 
hour,  the  deep  voice  rose  in  the  tender  and  gorgeous  prayer, 
filled  with  the  affluent  sunshine,  the  flowers,  the  greenery,  the 
wild-bird  melodies,  the  living  glory  of  the  spring,  all  music- 
rich  with  reverential  thought  and  feeling,  all  overflowed  with 
gratitude  and  praise  to  the  Giver,  with  faith,  and  piety,  and 
aspiration,  all  throbbing  with  immortal  longings,  and  raising 
the  soul  to  the  mystic's  vision  of  God,  and  kindling  the  heart 
with  the  hero's  hope  of  the  ideal  future  of  man  ?  A  streaming 
altar-flame,  uprising  rich  with  incense  from  hills  and  valleys 
lovely  in  the  blue  day  and  pomps  of  spring-time,  thronged  with 
the  saints  and  saviors  of  all  time,  and  echoing  with  the  sup 
plications  and  hosannas  of  mankind,  might  be  the  symbol  of 
that  prayer.  But  what  symbol  shall  gather  within  it  the 
strong  and  salient  intellections  of  the  following  sermon — its 
massive  breadth  and  scope  of  statement,  its  valiant  dealing 
with  the  public  sins  and  sinners  of  the  time,  its  learning  that 
swept  all  history,  its  knowledge  that  swept  all  life,  the  broad 
illumination  of  its  .eloquence,  the  prowess  of  its  virtue,  the 
sweetness  of  its  piety  ?  A  torch  of  burning  splendor  upheld 
by  Greatheart,  and  flashing  on  his  brand  and  mail  in  the  crash 
of  combat  with  Apollyon — its  blaze  poured  strong  and  definite 
upon  the  open  midnight  landscape  of  olir  mortal  life,  illumin 
ing  the  path  of  nobleness,  lighting  every  danger,  darting  its 
ray  upon  the  secret  pitfall,  and  into  the  ambush  of  the  foe,  and 
streaming  forward  over  all  the  perilous  track  to  the  gates  of 
God — such  might  be  the  visioned  symbol  of  a  speech  which 
yet  no  symbol  can  describe.  Closed  now  in  death  that  glori 
ous  eloquence,  nor  in  a  hundred  years  may  such  a  bloom  unfold 
again  ;  but  the  continents  shall  remember  how  in  an  evil  time 
burst  forth  its  flower  of  flame,  and  its  fragrance  shall  fill  the 
world  from  age  to  age. 

Every  high  heart  has  felt  the  sense  of  renewal  and  reconse- 
cration  which  follows  the  words  of  a  great  pulpit  orator  ;  and 
with  this  sense  strong  within  them,  the  little  party  left  the 
church  when  the  service  was  ended.  On  their  way  home, 
Wentworth  stopped  the  others  to  announce  that  Emily  was  to 


426  HARRINGTON. 

dine  at  his  father's  house,  and  return  to  Temple  street  late  in  the 
afternoon.  A  few  moments  passed  in  exchanging  warm  eulogiums 
on  the  sermon,  and  then  Mrs.  Eastman,  Mariel,  and  Harrington 
left  the  other  two  and  walked  across  the  beautiful  sunlit  Common. 

"  Now,  John,"  said  Muriel,  gaily,  "  of  course  you  have  some 
criticism  to  make  on  Mr.  Parker." 

"  I  declare  no,"  he  responded  ;  "  I  haven't  the  conscience  to 
criticise  him.  He  makes  one's  heart  glow  so  with  his  man 
hood,  that  criticism  must  be  dumb.  I  pass  his  theology,  every 
thing  in  fact,  I  might  differ  on,  and  rest  only  on  his  magnifi 
cent  public  service,  and  the  inspiration  of  his  example." 

"  Still,"  she  returned,  "you  would  differ,  if  you  could."  ' 

"  To  be  sure,"  he  replied,  smilingly.  "  If  I  could  criticise,  I 
would  own  to  a  divine  dissatisfaction.  For  the  sermon  implied 
no  theory  that  adequately  accounts  for  the  scheme  of  things, 
as  my  own  theory  does,  at  least  to  me.  However,  I  won't 
grumble.  I  have  Emerson  still  for  my  refuge.  All  the  modern 
thinkers  cramp  me  in  a  cell,  more  or  less  spacious,  but  in 
Emerson,  chiefly  in  his  poems,  I  escape  into  the  vast  of  space 
and  stars,  and  breathe  blithely  like  the  self-existent  soul  I 
am." 

"  Oh,  heretic  !"  she  gaily  exclaimed.  "  But  I  agree  with 
all  you  say,  and  especially  about  the  poems.  They  are  incom 
parably  beyond  all  else"  the  Muse  has  vouchsafed  to  our  Ameri 
can  bards." 

"Now,  John,"  said  Mrs.  Eastman,  "I  should  really  like  to 
know  what  your  theory  of  things  is.  Come,  define  your  posi 
tion." 

"  My  dear  mother,"  replied  Harrington,  laughing,  "  will  it 
do  to  give  it  voice  ?  The  tell-tale  birds  might  hear  me,  and 
carry  the  news  to  the  orthodox,  and  then  I  should  have  a 
grand  auto-da-fe,  with  all  the  great  wits  and  little  wits  dancing 
around  me  in  my  expiring  agonies." 

"  Oh,  but  John,"  she  banteringly  answered,  "  this  is  the  age 
and  land  of  free  thought,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  indeed.  Free  thought  meaning  your  freedom  to  think 
as  the  mass  of  your  fellow-citizens  do.  Go  beyond  that,  and 
they'll  melt  up  Judas  Iscariot  and  Ca3sar  Borgia,  and  all  the 


HARRINGTON.  427 

rascals,  little  and  big,  for  colors,  as  Allston's  Paint-King  melted 
up  the  lady,  and  paint  your  portrait  in  hues  of  earthquake  and 
eclipse,  as  Shelley's  phrase  has  it.  Political  liberty  with  us 
includes  the  right  to  wallop  your  own  nigger,  and  howl  into 
Coventry,  or  hang  to  a  tree,  any  humane  person  who  objects. 
Social  liberty  means  the  right  to  make  you  submit  to  the 
ordinances  of  Mrs.  Grundy,  be  they  the  prescriptions  of  a 
French  tailor  or  milliner  in  regard  to  your  dress,  or  the  fancies 
of  some  conclave  of  bigots  in  regard  to  your  actions,  and  if 
taste  or  conscience  rises  in  revolt,  Mrs.  Grundy  raps  them  on 
the  head  with  a  stick,  as  Lear's  cockney  did  the  eels  when  she 
put  them  in  the  pie  alive,  and  cries,  '  Down,  wantons,  down  !' 
Religious  liberty  involves  the  right  to  fling  theological  mud  and 
fire  on  the  good  name  of  anybody  who  ventures  beyond  the 
notions  of  clergymen,  and  liberty  in  general  means  your  privi 
lege  to  say  and  do  what  moderate  and  immoderate  intellects 
concede  you  may.  Socially  speaking,  the  very  essential  princi 
ple  of  liberty,  toleration,  is  tucked  away  in  Roger  Williams' 
grave.  The  people  of  this  country  think  they  love  liberty. 
They  don't.  They  don't  know  what  liberty  means.  If  they 
did  they'd  love  tyranny.  It  is  my  deliberate  conviction 
that  if  the  people  of  this  country  understood  what  the 
doctrine  of  liberty  involves  and  comprehends,  as  it  lies  in  the 
pages  of  the  scholars  who  conceived  it,  they  would  deny  it 
utterly,  and  set  up  the  despotism  of  the  Middle  Ages  as  their 
idol." 

Muriel  laughed  heartily  at  this  outburst. 

"  Bravo,  John  1"  she  cried.  "  Methinks  I  hear  you  thun 
dering  that  from  the  rostrum  into  the  startled  hearts  of  your 
fellow-citizens." 

"  Yes,  amidst  groans  and  hisses,"  returned  the  smiling  Har 
rington.  "  But  I  should  flash  a  bolder  speech  than  that  if  I 
were  to  address  the  public.  That  is  weak  rose-water  compared 
to  what  I  would  say  when  I  came  to  recite  the  special  instances 
of  the  civil  or  social  abuses  of  which  I  complain." 

"  Heaven  save  the  sinners  from  your  sprinkling  then  if  that 
is  only  rose-water,"  jested  Muriel.  "  But  here  is  mamma 
bursting  with  impatience  for  your  theory  of  the  Universe," 


4:28  HABRINGTON. 

•"  My  dear  mother,"  said  Harrington,  laughingly,  "  another 
time,  when  I  can  collect  my  vagrant  ideas,  I  will  confide  to  you 
all  I  saw  when  I  put  my  eye  to  a  chink  of  this  mortal  prison, 
and  looked  out  on  the  True.  Meanwhile,  you  will  find  some 
slight  hint  of  my  notions  in  Goethe's  poem  of  '  The  Festival/  " 

"  Which  I  shall  read  when  I  get  home,"  replied  Mrs.  East 
man. 

And  talking  in  this  strain,  they  reached  the  house  in  Temple 
street. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

HELL    ON    HEAVEN    IMPINGING. 

As  Mr.  Parker  only  preached  in  the  forenoon,  they  did  not 
go  to  church  again,  but  after  dinner  sat  together  all  the  after 
noon  in  the  library,  reading  aloud,  and  talking,  and  supremely 
happy. 

So  the  sweet  and  peaceful  day  wore  slowly  on  to  sunset, 
and  as  the  declining  beams  gilded  the  rich  room,  the  trio 
sank,  as  if  by  mutual  consent,  into  a  lapse  of  silence,  and  sat 
enjoying  the  luxury  of  the  happy  hour,  and  glad  in  their  own 
society.  Mrs.  Eastman  reclined  in  a  fauteuil,  her  cheek  pen 
sively  resting  on  her  hand,  and  her  serene,  poetic  face  musing 
between  its  graceful  silver  tresses  on  the  lovers.  The  clouds 
had  melted  from  her  mind,  and  she  only  thought  with  tran 
quil  joy  of  the  beautiful  change  that  had  come  so  silently  upon 
her  daughter's  life,  sundering  no  tie  and  marring  no  relation, 
and  her  soul  was  filled  with  gratitude  to  know  that  the  love 
of  her  child  was  anchored  on  a  heart  so  noble. 

Unconscious  that  she  was  the  subject  of  such  sweet  reflec 
tion,  Muriel  sat  in  reverie,  and  Harrington,  sitting  at  a  little 
distance,  fondly  dreamed  upon  her  vision-like  beauty.  So  exqui 
site  in  her  delicate  clear  color,  with  the  silken  amber  tresses 
rippling  low  around  her  cheeks,  and  the  perfection  of  her  form 
tenderly  told  by  the  pale,  rose-hued  robe,  that  she  touched 


HARRINGTON. 

Ms  imagination  with  a  strange  sense  of  faery.  He  was  so 
happy,  as  he  gazed  on  her,  that  he  could  scarcely  believe  in 
his  happiness.  Mixed  with  his  ethereal  pleasure  in  her  loveli 
ness,  was  a  dun  feeling  as  of  one  who  had  wedded  a  princess 
in  his  dream,  and  knew  that  he  dreamed,  and  would  awaken 
soon  to  find  himself  unwedded  and  alone.  Strange — strange 
to  think  that  this  .surpassing  woman  was  his  wife.  But  it  was 
true;  it  was  indeed  reality,  and  not  a  dream;  it  was  indeed 
reality,  and  it  had  flooded  life  with  the  tranquil  ecstasy  of 
heaven. 

Gazing  upon  her  in  deep  abstraction,  he  became  aware  that 
her  sweet  eyes  were  fixed  upon  his  face,  and  saw,  by  the  suf 
fusion  on  her  countenance,  as  of  the  rosy  color  of  the  morning,, 
that  she  was  conscious  of  his  ardent  gaze.  Confused  a  •  little 
at  being  thus  detected  in  his  admiration,  he  started,  blushing,, 
and  then  laughed,  as  she  archly  shook  her  finger  at  him. 

"  I  caught  you,"  she  said.  "  Now,  John,  what  were  you 
thinking  of  ?" 

"  Of  you,  Muriel.  Of  our  happiness.  I  am  strangely 
happy  to-night.  Were  not  you  conscious,  and  you,  mother, 
of  a  singular  happiness  as  we  all  sat  here  in  silence  together  ? 
The  Sabbath  peace  of  the  evening  was  like  the  peace  of 
heaven." 

They  did  not  answer,  but  bowed  their  heads  in  assent,  and 
lulled  by  the  sweet  influences  of  the  hour,  remained  in  silence 
It  was  but  a  few  moments,  and  the  sunset  light  died  from  the 
room;  and  as  it  faded  away,  and  the  first  grey  of  twilight 
filled  the  air,  Muriel  and  Harrington  both  rose,  as  if  its 
departure  was  the  dissolution  of  a  spell  that  had  held  them, 
and  approached  each  other  with  loving  faces  and  outstretched 
arms. 

They  were  within  a  yard's  distance,  when  suddenly  the 
door-bell  rang  with  such  a  violent  and  furious  clanging  clatter, 
that  they  stood  still.  It  was  like  the  scream  of  a  fury  warn 
ing  them  asunder.  The  love-look  dropped  from  their  faces, 
and  their  arms  fell.  Only  a  second's  pause,  and  again  the 
bell  rang  and  rang  and  rang,  clashing  and  clanging  without 
intermission,  like  the  startling  peal  of  an  alarum  from  a  chain- 


4:30  HARRINGTON. 

ber  where  murder  was  being  done,  and  the  struggling  victim 
had  seized  the  bell-rope.  Utterly  amazed  at  this  frightful 
clamor,  and  wondering  who  could  be  ringing  in  such  a  manner 
as  this,  they  stood  with  a  shock  in  their  blood,  blankly  gazing 
at  each  other.  Suddenly  they  recovered,  as  Mrs.  Eastman 
flew  past  them  with  an  indignant  face,  and  flung  open  the 
library  door. 

11  Who  dares  " 

She  stopped  in  the  midst  of  her  incensed  exclamation, 
for  at  that  moment  the  hall-door  was  opened,  and  with  a 
wild  clatter  of  angry  words  from  Patrick  below,  something 
bounced  in  and  up-stairs,  and  rushed  panting  to  fall  before 
them. 

It  was  Tugmutton.  They  gazed  upon  him  in  utter  amaze 
ment.  He  fell  prone,  then  rose  suddenly  on  his  knees  as  if  a 
spring  in  the  floor  had  shot  him  up,  and  knelt  gasping  and 
speechless  before  them,  a  fat  open-mouthed  face  of  ashen  fright 
glaring  with  white  saucer-eyes  upon  them  from  its  great  shocks 
of  wool,  and  the  two  huge  hands  lifted  like  the  paws  of  a  beg 
ging  dog,  in  an  agony  of  supplication.  For  a  moment,  they 
looked  at  him  astounded.  Suddenly  Harrington  saw  his  cap 
lying  on  the  floor — staggered  back  with  a  reeling  brain,  dashed 
forward  with  a  spring  up  to  Roux's  room,  and  flung  open  the 
door. 

Roux  was  lying  on  the  bed  asleep,  and  did  not  waken.  For 
an  instant  Harrington's  eye  swept  the  chamber,  then  became 
fixed.  He  heard  the  voices  down-stairs.  He  heard  the  regu 
lar  breathings  of  the  sleeping  man.  He  heard  the  dinning  of 
his  own  brain.  Then  all  seemed  to  grow  still,  and  with  a 
dreadful  feeling  in  his  mind,  he  slowly  turned  and  went  down. 

Tall,  erect,  terrible,  white  as  death,  he  entered  the 
library.  They  gazed  upon  his  face  with  draining  eyes.  He 
looked  at  them  for  a  moment  in  silence.  The  boy  still  knelt 
gasping  and  shuddering  on  the  floor.  But  they  were  motion 
less — motionless  as  marble. 

"  Mother,"  His  voice  was  clear  and  low.  He  paused. 
"  Mother — collect  yourself.  Be  calm.  Has  he  told  you  ?" 

There  was  silence,  intense  and  awful.     He  did  not  look  at 


HARRINGTON.  431 

his  wife,  but  he  felt  that  she  turned  away.  He  looked  only  at 
the  pallid  face  gazing  at  him  with  parted  lips  and  mute  eyes 
between  its  silver  tresses,  as  if  it  had  turned  to  stone.  Sud 
denly  her  voice  rang. 

"  He  has  not  told  me.    Speak  !  I  can  bear  anything  but  this." 

"  Mother,  the  poor  wanderer  to  whom  you  gave  shelter  is 
gone.  He  went  out  with  the  boy.  He  has  been  kidnapped 
in  the  streets  of  Boston." 

She  stood  for  a  moment,  ghastly,  rigid,  immovable.  Sud 
denly  a  low  cry  wailed  from  her  lips  and  she  fell.  He 
sprang  and  caught  her,  lifted  her  in  his  arms  and  bore  her  to 
a  couch.  Muriel  glanced  from  the  room.  Flying  to  the  win 
dows,  he  flung  them  open  to  let  in  the  fresh  air.  Then,  back 
to  the  lady  in  her  swoon,  and  kneeling  beside  her,  his  quick 
hands  snapped  the  silken  strings  of  her  bodice,  unclasped  her 
belt,  and  loosened  her  clothes.  The  boy  softly  sank  on  his 
face,  and  lay  gasping  on  the  floor. 

A  light  touch  :  Muriel,  calm,  self-possessed,  pale,  was  beside 
him.  He  took  from  her  hands  the  glass  of  water,  and  sprinkled 
the  pallid  face,  while  she  drenched  her  handkerchief  with 
cologne  and  bathed  the  still  brow  and  nostrils.  The  evening 
wind  blew  freshly  into  the  room,  and  gradually  a  quiver  of  life 
came  to  the  marble  features.  Harrington  silently  pointed  to 
the  loosened  bodice,  moved  away,  and  stood  with  his  brow 
resting  on  his  hand. 

Minute  after  minute  passed  on  and  all  was  silent  save  the 
fainter  gaspings  of  the  boy.  Gradually,  low  rustling  move 
ments  and  faint  murmurs,  mixed  with  the  sweet  and  soothing 
whispers  of  Muriel,  came  to  him  from  the  couch.  He  remained 
motionless,  his  mind  blank  and  cold.  In  a  minute  or  two 
Muriel  spoke  to  him. 

"  She  has  recovered,  John." 

His  hand  fell  from  his  brow  as  he  heard  her  words,  and  lift 
ing  his  white  face,  he  moved  noiselessly  across  the  room,  closed 
the  windows,  and  came  to  the  pale  lady's  side. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  kneeling  by  her,  and  tenderly  folding 
her  in  his  arms,  "  I  would  not  have  told  you  if  I  could  have 
kept  it  from  you." 


432  HARRINGTON. 

"  Hush  !"  she  murmured.  "  You  did  well.  It  was  terrible, 
but  I  had  to  know  it.  Come,  I  am  ready  now  for  the  rest. 
Bring  Charles  here,  and  let  me  know  all.  I  will  lie  here  and 
listen.  Do  not  fear.  I  can  bear  everything  now." 

Rising  to  his  feet,  he  crossed  the  room,  lifted  the  boy  from 
the  floor  as  lightly  as  though  he  were  a  baby,  and  held  him 
face  to  face  at  arms'  length  before  him.  The  hapless  Tug- 
mutton,  dangling  broad-limbed  and  big-footed  between  the 
strong  supporting  hands,  stared  with  blobber  visage,  ashen 
with  fright  and  grief,  and  with  mouth,  eyes,  and  nostrils  wildly 
open,  into  the  white  face  smiling  into  his,  with  a  smile  gentle 
even  in  its  ghastliness. 

"  Charles,"  said  Harrington,  in  a  low,  consoling  voice, 
"  don't  be  frightened,  poor  boy.  See,  I  am  not  angry  with 
you.  I  feel  badly  for  what  has  happened,  but  I  am  not  angry 
with  you,  Charles." 

The  miserable  Tugmutton,  inert  in  his  suspension,  opened  his 
big  mouth  wide,  and  burst  into  a  roar  of  tears. 

"  My  gosh  !  Mr.  Harrington,"  he  howled,  amidst  his  grief, 
"  there  aint  a  more  mis'able  young  nigger  this  side  of  Jordan 
than  me.  He's  took  off,  and  I'm  the  guilty  party,  Mr.  Har 
rington,  when  I  didn't  mean  it.  Oh,  Lord  A'inighty,  I  can't 
provide  for  that  family  never  no  more,  and  the  man  that  won't 
provide  for  his  family,  is  just  wus  than  an  infidel,  and  that's  in 
the  Holy  Bible,  Mr.  Harrington,  and  father's  the  victim  of 
misplaced  confidence,  and  oh,  my  gosh,  I  wish  I  was  in  Canada, 
as  sure  as  you're  born." 

With  which  outburst,  the  wretched  Tugmutton  let  his  head 
droop  on  the  blue-striped  shirt  which  covered  his  fat  chest,  and 
with  his  grey-jacketed,  short  fat  arms  hanging  over  Harring 
ton's  hands,  and  his  grey-trowsered,  short  broad  legs  dangling 
motionless,  he  sobbed  as  if  his  big  heart  was  breaking.  Har 
rington,  filled  with  compassion  for  his  uncouth  sorrow,  took 
him  in  his  arms  like  an  infant,  and  held  him  still,  not  even 
smilmg  at  the  odd  ideas  and  odd  phrases  which  he  had  poured 
forth,  and  which,  even  in  that  painful  hour,  might  well  have 
moved  a  smile. 

"Hush,  Charles,"  murmured  the  young  man.     "Don't  cry 


HARRINGTON.  433 

any  more.  Come,  I  want  you  to  tell  us  all  that  has  hap 
pened.  I  want  you  to  tell  the  whole  truth,  and  perhaps  we 
can  find  Antony  again." 

At  this,  Tugmutton  started  in  his  arms,  and  stopped  crying 
instantly. 

"  Let  me  down,  Mr.  Harrington,  let  me  down,"  he  excitedly 
vociferated,  wriggling  like  a  conger  eel  from  Harrington's  hold, 
and  dumping  upon  the  floor.  "  My  gosh  !  if  you'll  on'y  find 
that  Antony,  I'll  tell  you  every  word  of  the  truth  and  the 
whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth,  so  help  you  God." 

Harrington  pushed  a  chair  up  to  the  couch  for  Muriel,  and 
seating  himself  in  another,  drew  the  boy  near  him,  and  at 
once,  in  rapid  and  excited  tones,  Tugmutton  began  his  con 
fession,  telling  everything  even  to  the  most  irrelevant  details. 

It  appeared  from  what  he  said  that  his  empire  over  Roux 
had  extended  also  over  Antony,  and  that  the  latter,  completely 
subjugated  by  his  grand  airs  and  assumption  of  superior 
knowledge,  had  in  his  simplicity  come  to  look  upon  him  as 
one  of  the  most  powerful  of  his  guardians.  In  this  mood, 
Tugmutton  had  regaled  him  with  glowing  accounts  of  the 
attractions  of  the  city,  every  inch  of  which,  from  Roxbury 
Line  to  Salutation  Alley,  and  further  in  all  directions,  was  as 
familiar  to  the  Bedouin  feet  of  the  fat  Puck  as  his  own  abode 
in  Southac  street.  Especially  had  he  dwelt  upon  the  glories 
of  Boston  Common,  and  that  day  he  had  expatiated  upon 
them  till  Antony,  filled  with  wonderment,  almost  imagined  the 
place  some  unheard  of  Eden.  Roux  falling  asleep  in  the  after 
noon,  Tugmutton  had  continued  his  ecstatic  panegyric  on  the 
Common,  and  finally  wound  up  by  proposing  a  short  tour  to 
that  romantic  region  during  the  repose  of  his  father.  After 
some  demurring  on  the  part  of  Antony,  and  considerable  domi 
neering  on  that  of  Tugmutton,  the  former  yielded,  and  they 
stole  softly  down-stairs  and  out  at  the  street  door,  while  their 
hosts  were  in  the  library.  Reaching  the  Common,  rich  in  the 
sunset  light,  and  its  malls  filled  with  gaily-dressed  prbineua- 
ders,  the  enchanted  Antony  wandered  with  his  pigmy  guide 
across  the  inclosure,  and  emerged  with  him  on  the  Park  street 
corner.  There  they  stood  on  the  pavement,  while  Tugmutton 

19 


434  HARRINGTON. 

descanted  on  the  magnificence  of  the  Park  street  church,  with 
especial  reference  to  the  height  of  the  steeple,  loftiness  of 
spire  being  in  his  view  the  chief  end  and  crowning  perfection 
of  all  church  architecture.  As  he  was  talking,  a  hack  drove 
up  and  stood  at  a  little  distance  from  them,  and  at  the  same 
time  his  eye  fell  upon  a  gentleman  standing  near  a  side  entrance 
of  the  church,  and  smilingly  beckoning  to  him.  A  little  aston 
ished  at  first,  and  then  a  little  flattered  at  this  affability, 
he  turned  with  a  lofty  and  vain-glorious  air  to  Antony,  as 
much  as  to  say,  you  see  the  immense  consideration  paid  me 
by  the  aristocracy,  and  bidding  him  wait  there  a  moment, 
crossed  the  street  to  the  stranger,  who,  with  a  smiling  nod, 
retreated  into  the  passage,  which  happened  to  be  open. 
Thither  Tugmutton  followed  him.  What  the  stranger  said, 
his  subsequent  fright  drove  out  of  his  memory,  and  he  could 
only  recollect  that  he  held  him  lightly  by  the  arm  as  he  spoke 
to  Mm  ;  but  in  the  midst  of  the  interview,  happening  to  glance 
around,  he  saw  a  man  rush,  pushing  Antony  before  him,  crowd 
him  into  the  hack,  and  spring  in  after  him,  while  the  vehicle 
rattled  away  down  Winter  street.  Of  course  Tugmutton 
sprang  to  follow,  but  the  stranger  seized  him  by  the  throat, 
and  shook  him  so  that  he  could  neither  speak  nor  cry.  Re 
leased  presently,  the  wretched  boy  rushed  into  the  street,  and 
after  the  carriage.  But  it  was  out  of  sight,  and  running  back 
to  the  church,  the  stranger  was  gone.  Too  much  horrified  to 
make  any  outcry,  Tugmutton  had  instantly  run  with  all  his 
speed  back  to  Temple  street,  where  he  had  arrived  as  we  have 
related. 

All  this,  involving  details  which  under  ordinary  circumstan 
ces  he  would  have  suppressed  as  disgraceful  to  himself,  but 
which  he  now  frankly  disclosed  in  the  full  conviction  that  a  know 
ledge  of  the  entire  truth  would  enable  Harrington  to  recapture 
Antony  from  the  kidnappers,  Tugmutton  poured  forth  in  his  own 
way  to  his  pale  and  silent  auditors,  and  ending,  sat  eagerly 
staring  first  at  one  and  then  the  other,  as  wondering  what  was 
to  be  done  now  that  he  had  told  all. 

"  Charles,"  said  Harrington,  "  what  kind  of  a  looking  man 
was  it  you  saw  seize  Antony  1" 


HARRINGTON.  435 

"  My  gosh  !  it  was  so  quick  that  I  scase  got  a  sight  of  him, 
Mr.  Harrington/'  returned  Tugmutton,  staring  into  the  white 
face  of  his  questioner.  "  I  on'y  saw  he  had  on  a  straw  hat 
an'  a  sorter  light  coat,  an'  was  tanned  consid'ble." 

"  Tanned,"  mused  Harrington.  "  That  must  have  been  the 
captain  of  the  Soliman." 

He  was  right  in  his  conviction.     It  was  Bangham. 

"  I  see  how  it  was  done,"  he  pursued.  "  They  were  to 
gether,  and  came  on  Antony  and  Charles  standing  there. 
One  hailed  the  carriage — probably  some  passing  hack — the 
other  decoyed  the  boy  away  to  prevent  his  outcries — and  the 
rest  we  know.  0  Boston,  Boston  1  I  loved  you  once — • 
every  stone  in  your  pavement  was  dear  to  me  ;  but  I  sicken 
of  you  now,  and  I  shall  never  walk  your  streets  with  joy 
again  1  A  poor,  helpless,  harmless  man — a  fugitive  from  the 
worst  tyranny  that  deforms  the  world — and  in  the  streets  of 
this  free  city,  in  open  daylight,  on  the  Sabbath,  with  a  crowd 
standing  around,  he  can  be  stolen,  as  a  horse  could  not  be 
stolen,  and  not  one  person  lifts  a  hand  to  prevent  it,  or  asks 
why  !  Not  one — not  one  1" 

He  covered  his  burning  eyes  with  his  hand,  and  sat  still. 
The  doleful  boy  gazed  piteously  at  the  pale,  mute  faces  of  the 
two  ladies,  his  fat,  ashen  visage  quivering  with  the  feeling  that 
he  had  done  a  mischief  which  not  even  Harrington  could 
undo. 

"  John."  It  was  Mrs.  Eastman  that  spoke.  "  You  have 
not  asked  who  the  man  was  that  decoyed  Charles." 

He  looked  with  mortal  sadness  into  her  agitated  face. 

"  Need  I  ask,  mother  ?"  he  drearily  replied.  "  A  gentle 
man.  It  was  not  Lafitte,  for  him  Charles  knows.  There  is 
but  one  other  person  that  wears  the  attire  of  a.gentleman  who 
could  be  a  party  to  this  deed." 

The  tears  flowed  on  her  face,  and  as  they  flowed  she  wiped 
them  away. 

"You  are  right,"  she  faltered.  "It  is  the  last,  the  worst 
disgrace  I  can  ever  know.  A  brother  of  my  own  blood,  the 
son  of  the  mother  that  bore  me — and  with  his  own  hands,  not 
preserving  even  the  miserable  decorum  of  an  agent,  with  his 


436  HARRINGTON. 

own  hands  he  commits  this  crime.     It  almost  kills  me  to  think 
of  it." 

"  John,"  said  Muriel,  "  listen  to  me." 

He  started  from  his  lethargy  of  sorrow,  and  gazed  into  her 
face.  She  was  pale,  collected,  calm  ;  her  eyes  firm  and  clear, 
and  her  voice  and  manner  full  of  quiet  energy. 

"  John,"  she  pursued,  "  we  must  not  waste  these  hours. 
All  is  not  lost  yet.  We  have  the  clues  to  this  infamy  in  our 
hands.  That  man  has  no  doubt  been  taken  on  board  the 
Soliman.  You  must  at  once  procure  a  writ  of  habeas  corpus 
and  get " — — 

She  paused,  arrested  by  the  strange  and  ghastly  smile  that 
changed  his  countenance. 

"  I  have  thought  of  it,"  he  said.  "  If  it  were  not  for  this 
Fugitive  Slave  Law,  we  might  have  a  chance  of  success.  But 
see — perjury  would  be  nothing  to  the  men  that  could  do  this 
deed.  When  the  writ  is  served  on  them,  they  will  swear 
that  the  man  is  not  in  their  possession.  Then  a  warrant  will 
be  procured  for  his  arrest,  and  after  a  pretended  search,  he 
will  be  found,  dragged  before  a  commissioner,  and  sent  into 
slavery.  And  if  I  get  a  writ,  who  will  I  get  to  serve  it  ? 
From  the  sheriff  to  the  lowest  catchpoll  is  there  one  of  them 
that  can  be  depended  upon  to  do  his  duty  in  such  a  case  ? 
Justice  is  drugged  with  slavery.  Law  winks  at  kidnapping." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  still  face,  touched  for  a  moment 
by  what  he  said,  then  refluent  to  its  purpose. 

"  It  must  be  tried,  nevertheless,"  she  said  firmly.  "  You 
yourself,  John,  can  serve  the  writ,  or  accompany  the  of 
ficer." 

He  gazed  at  her  with  eyes  that  filled  with  tears,  as  they 
wandered  from  her  countenance  to  her  mother's.  Mrs.  East 
man  shrank  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  In  an  in 
stant  Muriel  comprehended  the  deeper  reason  which  had  made 
him  hopeless  of  a  rescue,  and  with  a  feeling  as  nearly  like  de 
spairing  agony  as  her  nature,  organized  for  faith  and  hope  and 
joy,  could  feel,  she  sank  back  in  her  chair. 

"  Muriel,"  said  he,  in  a  solemn  voice,  "  I  have  thought  of 
all,  and  I  see  no  way  open  to  us.  Under  other  circumstances, 


HARRINGTON.  4:37 

I  would  get  the  writ,  and  though  he  probably  could  not  be 
found,  endeavor  to  save  this  man.  But  I  cannot  take  the  first 
step  without  involving  Lemuel  Atkins.  Can  I  do  it  ?  Think 
how  mother  feels  this  already.  Think  how  she  would  feel  it 
then.  Think  of  the  position  we  are  in." 

"  Tell  me,  John,  tell  me,"  faltered  Mrs.  Eastman,  weeping, 
"  tell  me  what  I  ought  to  do.  Ought  I  to  have  this  made 
public  ?  What  would  you  do  if  he  were  your  brother,  as  he 
is  mine  ?" 

"  Mother,"  said  he,  solemnly,  "  I  cannot  guide  you.  Were 
he  my  brother,  though  it  might  break  my  heart  to  do  it,  I 
would  never  keep  this  wrong  secret  and  silent.  But  my  con 
science  cannot  give  the  law  to  yours." 

"  I  cannot  do  it,"  she  sobbed.  "  You  will  despise  me,  but 
I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  the  disgrace  my  consent  would 
bring  upon  him." 

"  Despise  you  ?"  he  quickly  .answered.  "  Never.  Your 
feeling  is  sacred  to  me.  I  appreciate  it.  I  respect  it." 

"  At  least,"  she  cried,  "  give  me  time  to  think.  Let  me 
first  go  to  him — let  me  implore  him  to  undo  what  he  has  done. 
He  does  not  know  that  the  man  was  sheltered  here.  Oh,  per 
haps  I  can  prevail  with  him.  Think  of  the  shame  it  will  be  one 
day  to  his  wife  and  children.  When  this  slavery  madness 
ends,  as  it  may  soon,  think  of  the  awful  shame  his  family  will 
feel  if  this  act  lives  against  him.  How  can  I  bear  to  have  it 
brought  on  them  !  At  least  for  their  sake  let  me  try  every 
other  effort,  and  then  if  I  fail,  perhaps  " 

She  faltered — her  voice  choked  with  emotion.  She  could 
not  bring  herself  to  say,  that  perhaps  she  wo,uld  consent  to 
publish  her  brother's  shame,  and  bring  the  fury  of  anti-slavery 
rebuke,  and  the  scorn  of  the  coming  years  of  freedom  upon 
him. 

They  sat  in  silence  thinking  with  hopeless  sadness  of  the 
terrible  cloud  that  had  rushed  so  suddenly  upon  their  peaceful 
and  happy  day,  and  the  twilight  began  to  darken  around 
them.  Mrs.  Eastman  rose. 

"  I  will  go  at  once  to  see  him,"  she  said. 

"  Let  me  attend  you,"  said  Harrington,  rising. 


438  HAKETNGTON. 

"  No,  John.  Thank  you.  I  will  go  alone,"  she  replied,  and 
left  the  room. 

"  You  must  stay  here,  Charles,"  said  Harrington,  turning 
to  Tugniutton.  "  On  no  account  must  you  go  to  your  father 
after  what  has  happened,  until  we  decide  what  to  do." 

Tugniutton  said  nothing,  but  sat  down  on  a  low  stool  in  a 
corner  of  the  room,  and  leaned  against  the  wall  in  deep  des 
pondency. 

"  And  what  are  we  to  do,  Muriel  ?"  murmured  Harrington. 
"  How  are  we  to  tell  Roux  of  this  ?  It  will  kill  him.  Even 
now,  perhaps  he  is  wondering  where  his  brother  is.  Poor, 
poor  man  !  Oh,  misery,  misery  !" 

He  turned  away  and  walked  the  dim  library  with  an  aching 
heart.  Muriel,  silent,  her  mind  in  its  fullest  activity,  was 
vainly  striving  to  think  of  some  plan  by  which  this  sad  stroke 
of  fortune  could  be  retrieved.  Presently,  Harrington  rang 
for  lights,  and  Patrick  came  in  and  lighted  the  chandelier, 
whose  moony  globes  of  ground  glass  filled  the  library  with 
mellow  radiance. 

Alone  again,  Harrington  turned  to  Muriel  ;  she  rose  from 
her  seat,  and  gliding  swiftly  toward  him,  clasped  him  in  her 
arms.  Holding  her  to  him,  he  gazed,  sadly  smiling,  into  her 
face,  exquisite  in  its  pale  beauty. 

"  Beloved,"  he  murmured  mournfully,  "it  is  the  first  sor 
row  of  our  wedded  life." 

"  The  first,"  she  calmly  answered.  "  But,  oh,  my  husband, 
let  us  be  grateful  that  it  is  a  sorrow  that  we  feel  for  others, 
and  not  for  ourselves." 

The  tears  ran  down  his  face,  and  he  fondly  bent  his  head 
and  pressed  his  lips  to  her  forehead. 

"We  were  so  happy,"  he  faltered.  "  Never  was  my  spirit 
lulled  in  so  deep  and  sweet  a  happiness  as  when  this  dreadful 
tidings  rushed  upon  me.  Strange,  strange  to  think  this 
heavenly  day  should  end  thus,  in  this  blackness  of  darkness. 
It  quite  unmans  me." 

Folded  in  each  other's  arms,  they  remained  for  a  little  while 
in  silence,  while  his  agitation  gradually  subsided  into  sorrowful 
calm. 


HARRINGTON. 


439 


"  Do  you  remember,  Muriel,"  he  resumed,  "  the  description 
in  the  last  chapter  of  the  Revelations  of  St.  John,  of  the 
heavenly  city  where  there  is  no  night,  nor  sun,  nor  moon, 
but  the  glory  of  God  lightens  it,  and  the  Lamb  is  the  light 
thereof?  And  without,  you. remember,  the  Evangelist  says  is 
the  horrible  abode  of  the  wicked.  You  remember  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  she  answered,  gazing  into  his  ab 
stracted  and  sorrowing  face. 

"  When  I  was  a  boy,"  he  continued,  "  I  used  to  have  a 
dream,  unspeakably  awful,  "derived,  I  think  from  my  reading 
of  that  part  of  the  Revelations.  In  my  dream,  I  was  in 
heaven — a  strangely  beautiful  dun  land,  filled  with  a  still,  mystic 
glory.  I  cannot  tell  you  the  ineffable  hush  that  pervaded  the 
happy  region,  and  there  I  wandered  tranced  in  an  indescribable 
tranquil  ecstasy.  But  in  this  dream,  which  I  frequently  had, 
I  always  came  to  a  spot  which  seemed  the  confines  of  the 
place.  The  glory  of  the  region  ran  to  a  point  there,  in  a 
shape  like  the  apex  of  a  triangle,  and  on  either  side  a  railing 
of  rich  fretted  gold  separated  it  from  the  region  beyond. 
Suddenly,  as  I  stood,  a  dreadful  perception  of  the  outer 
region  would  overwhelm  me.  I  saw  a  horrid  realm  of  black 
and  grisly  twilight,  strangely  mixed  with  black  darkness — I 
heard  the  savage  baying  of  dogs,  the  confused  jargon  of  un- 
human  blasphemies  and  demon  laughter,  and  the  hideous  faces 
of  devils  gnashed  at  me  through  the  golden  pales.  It  is 
impossible  to  tell  you  the  ghastly  affright  that  suddenly  struck 
through  my  ecstasy  when  this  came  to  me,  nor  can  I  say  how 
fearfully  it  was  intensified  by  the  contrast  between  the  ecstatic 
stillness  and  glory  of  the  place,  and  the  hideous  and  discord 
ant  sights  and  sounds  beyond.  I  always  awoke  in  horror, 
drenched  with  perspiration,  and  afraid  to  be  alone  in  the 
darkness." 

"  What  a  dreadful  dream  ?"  she  murmured,  shivering 
slightly,  and  clinging  a  little  closer  to  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  responded,  his  voice  low,  and  his  white  face 
frigidly  fixed  on  vacancy.  "Yes.  It  was  like  a  spiritual 
symbol.  And  now  it  has  come  to  me." 

His  countenance  suddenly  grew  livid  and  convulsed  with 


440  HARRINGTON. 

writhing  anguish,  and  dark  circles  started  out  around  his  tear- 
filled  eyes. 

"  It  has  come  to  me,"  he  gasped,  tremulously,  shaken  with 
strong  agony.  "  I  have  wandered  to  the  confines  of  my  happy 
heaven  of  love,  and  through  the  glory  and  the  stillness,  and 
through  my  sacred  ecstasy,  the  grisly  land  of  slavery  strikes 
upon  me,  with  its  jargonic  blasphemies  and  revelries  of  hate, 
the  gnashing  of  its  devils,  and  the  baying  of  the  dogs  that 
hunt  men.  It  has  come  to  me.  The  dream  of  my  boyhood 
was  its  true  symbol.  A  dreadful  dream  of  reality,  and  I 
wake  from  it  in  despair  and  agony  and  horror." 

His  low  voice  shuddered  into  silence,  and  convulsed  through 
all  his  frame,  he,  tore  himself  from  her,  and  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands.  Sad  as  she  had  never  been  before,  she  turned 
away  and  stood  in  her  wonted  attitude,  her  clasped  hands 
drooping  before  her,  and  her  head  bent  upon  her  bosom. 
Squatting  on  his  stool  in  the  corner  of  the  room,  the  horrified 
Tugmutton  glared  at  them,  with  his  white  eyes  bulging  from 
his  blobber  face  under  his  great  shocks  of  wool,  like  some 
lubber  imp  of  darkness  risen  to  work  them  bane. 

In  a  few  moments  Harrington's  hands  fell  heavily  from  his 
face,  and  agile  as  lightning,  Muriel  flashed  into  his  arms,  and 
clung  to  him,  with  a  smile  brilliant  and  tender  as  the  morning 
on  her  impassioned  features. 

"  Oh,  my  beloved  !"  she  cried,  "  do  not  sink  from  yourself 
into  despair — do  not  lose  the  immortal  in  the  mortal !  Think 
of  the  briefness  of  this  life — think  of  the  endless  golden  reaches 
of  the  life  of  which  all  our  earthly  experience  is  but  a  moment. 
Heaven  knows  my  sympathies  are  not  imperfect;  I  could  die 
myself — ah,  more,  f  could  see  you  die— to  save  to  a  life  of 
human  use  this  poor  spirit,  whom  his  fellow  spirits,  in  their 
incarnate  madness,  have  dragged  away  from  us  to  wreak 
their  insanity  of  hate  upon.  But  it  is  greater  pain  than  my 
death  or  yours,  to  see  you  mourn  his  fate  with  a  mourning 
that  forgets  the  godhood  within  you.  You  told  me  once 
the  divine  sentence  of  the  alchemist — '  Heaven  hath  in  it 
this  scene  of  earth.'  Oh,  remember  it  now — think  how  brief, 
how  fleeting  is  this  term  of  grief  and  wrong — think  of  the 


HAKRINGTON. 

eternal  heaven  in  which  the  grief  and  wrong  melt  away  for 
ever,  and  be  sustained  and  comforted  !" 

As  at  the  harpiugs  of  the  young  shepherd  of  Israel,  the 
dark  spirit  sank  from  Saul,  so  at  the  clear,  fervent  music 
of  her  voice,  the  agony  and  horror  passed  from  him,  and  he 
grew  calm.  Fondly  and  sadly,  with  the  tears  still  wet  upon 
his  cheeks,  he  gazed  into  her  exalted  face,  lit  with  a  smile  of 
auroral  tenderness. 

"  You  are  wise,"  he  said  mournfully,  "  and  I  know  that  my 
sorrow  is  weak  and  unworthy.  I  sink  from  my  faith — I  lose 
myself  in  this  dark  hour  of  trouble.  A  poor,  helpless,  de 
spised,  rejected  man,  more  forlorn  and  wretched  than  the  most 
loathed  outcast — I  found  him  in  the  friendless  streets,  I  took 
him  to.  my  home,  I  nourished  his  feeble  life — and  they  have 
clutched  him  from  me,  and  dragged  him  back  to  outrage  and 
torment  and  murder.  If  it  were  the  act  of  some  solitary 
ruffian,  I  could  bear  it  ;  terrible  as  it  is,  I  could  bear  it ;  but 
to  think  that  society  in  all  its  structure  makes  it  possible  for 
deeds  like  this  to  be  done  !  Oh,  sleep  of  civilization  !  Jus 
tice,  honor,  compassion,  love,  have  you  gone  from  earth  for 
ever  I  Is  human  brotherhood  a  Bedlam  dream,  vanishing 
from  the  mind  of  man,  and  leaving  him  to  the  dark  sanity  of 
one  life-long  mutual  murder  !  Is  this  civil-suited  swarm  of 
sordid  devils  and  furies  the  vanguard  of  the  new  civilization 
that  is  to  oversweep  the  world  1  Let  me  not  think  of  it — let 
my  sick  heart  swoon  from  the  misery  of  it !  Oh,  that  I  were 
dead  this  night,  if  death  could  hide  from  me  this  tremendous 
shame  I  Better  to  be  dead  than  stand  here,  tied  hand  and 
foot,  unable  to  lift  a  finger  to  prevent  the  commission  of  this 
ghastly  outrage.  Better  death  than  to  <iive  poisoned  to  my 
heart's  core  with  the  knowledge  that  society  is  one  fell  league 
against  the  weak  and  poor." 

The  words  which  had  begun  in  sorrow,  rose  into  low 
tempestuous  agony  and  ended  in  a  tone  of  heart-broken 
desolate  sadness  which  language  cannot  tell.  Muriel  gazed 
at  him  mournfully,  and  the  tears  silently  welled  from  her 
eyes. 

"  My  beloved,"  she  said  in  a  tremulous  voice,  sadly  smiling 

19* 


44:2  HARRINGTON. 

as  she  spoke,  "  it  grieves  me  more  than  all  other  grief,  to  see 
you  overmastered  thus.  What  can  I  'say  to  calm  you  ?  Alas  ! 
that  I  who  love  you  so  deeply,  am  powerless  to  lift  you  from 
this  dread  sorrow  !" 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  spasm  of  self-control  in  his  sad 
face,  and  seemed  to  struggle  into  calm. 

"  Let  me  not  grieve  you,"  he  faltered.  "  See,  it  is  over.  It 
shall  not  master  me.  There  :  I  am  strong  again.  For  your 
sake  I  will  crush  it  down.  I  love  you — I  will  not  pain  you. 
I  will  strive  to  forget  it,  and  be  again  as  in  our  happy  hours 
of  love  and  peace  before  this  n 

The  faltering  voice  failed,  and  the  mighty  struggle  to  be 
calm  again  wrought  in  his  features. 

"  Courage,  courage/'  she  cried,  tenderly  smiling  upon  him. 
"  Courage  1  All  is  not  ended  yet.  At  worst  we  can  say, 
with  King  Francis,  that  everything  is  lost  but  honor.  But 
everything  is  not  lost.  We  shall  devise  some  means  to 
retrieve  this  stroke.  Oh,  my  poor  mother,  if  it  were  not 
for  your  unlucky  weakness,  the  victory  would  not  be  so  difficult  ! 
We  would  sound  a  blast  in  Master  Lemuel's  ears  that  would 
bring  down  his  ambition  for  kidnapping  like  Jericho.  But 
there's  no  leaven  of  the  Roman  in  poor  mother's  composition, 
and  we  are  fatally  hampered  by  her  feeling." 

"  Yes,"  said  Harrington,  mournfully,  "  the  necessity  for 
keeping  this  matter  private  is  our  ruin.  I  know  not  what  to 
do,  or  which  way  to  turn." 

"  At  all  events,"  she  replied,  "  let  us  not  despair.  Nothing 
palsies  one's  faculties  and  energies  like  despair.  Come,  sit  here 
by  me,  and  let  us  coolly  review  our  position,  and  see  what  we 
can  do." 

She  sat  down  on  the  couch,  and  he  took  his  seat  by  her 
side. 


HARRINGTON. 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

THE    HEARTS    OF    CHEVALIERS. 

THEY  were  about  to  commence  conversation,  when  footsteps 
and  voices  were  heard  upon  the  stairs,  and  presently  Emily 
and  Wentworth,  joyous  and  smiling,  came  into  the  library. 

"  Here  we  are  again  !"  cried  Wentworth,  in  his  hearty  voice, 
flinging  his  hat  on  the  table,  and  running  his  hand  through  his 
clustering  curls.  "  Here  we  are,  in  the  height  of  felicity. 
Hallo,  who's  that  ?"  he  exclaimed,  catching  sight  of  Tug- 
mutton  squatting  in  the  corner.  "  Why,  you  ineffable  young 
goblin,  what  are  you  doing  there  ?" 

Emily,  who  was  laying  off  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  turned 
quickly  in  the  direction  he  was  apostrophizing,  and  laughed 
half-amusedly  and  half-wonderingly  at  the  doleful  visage  of 
the  boy. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  you,  Charles?"  she  in 
quired. 

"  Well  put,"  cried  Wentworth.  "  He  looks  as  if  he  had  a 
bad  attack  of  the  mulligrubs." 

"  Now,  Richard  !"  exclaimed  Emily.  "  I  do  wish  that  you 
wouldn't  talk  slang.  You  artists  are  perfectly  incorrigible  in 
your  use  of  slang." 

"  All  due  to  the  artistic  faculty,  Emily  dear,"  he  gaily 
returned.  "  Slang  is  the  picturesque  of  language,  and  we  must 
talk  picturesquely,  or  die.  But,  conscience  alive  !  Why, 
Harrington  !  And  you,  Muriel  !  What's  the  matter  ? 
You  look  as  if  you  had  a  touch  of  the  ebony  lamb's  com 
plaint  too." 

" Don't  jest,  Richard,"  said  Harrington.  "We  have  had 
an  awful  experience  since  we  saw  you." 


444  HARRINGTON. 

"  Awful !"  exclaimed  Wentworth,  turning  pale.  "  Why, 
what's  happened  ?" 

Emily  came  flying  over  to  them,  with  her  cheeks  blanched, 
and  her  lips  parted  in  frightened  inquiry. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  she  cried.  "  Is  anything  the  matter  with 
Mrs.  Eastman  1" 

"No,  Emily;  she  is  well,"  replied  Harrington.  "  Richard, 
the  Hungarian  fugitive  is  safe  in  the  streets  of  Boston.  No 
hound  of  Vienna  can  track  him  here.  But  the  American  fugi 
tive  is  not  safe  here  from  the  Vienna  of  the  Union.  The  poor 
man,  whose  tale  of  suffering  so  moved  you — he  has  been  kid 
napped  in  the  streets  of  our  city  this  evening." 

"  My  God  1"  shouted  Wentworth,  stamping  his  foot  on  the 
floor,  and  turning  livid. 

Emily  burst  into  tears,  and  dropped  into  a  chair. 

"  Kidnapped  this  evening  1"  pursued  the  young  artist. 
"  Why,  you  had  him  here.  How  could  this  happen  ?" 

11  Listen,  and  I  will  tell  you,"  replied  Harrington. 

Wentworth  and  Ernily  drew  up  their  chairs,  and  sat  facing 
their  friends.  There  Was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  in  a 
few  clear,  direct  words,  Harrington  told  them  all. 

Wentworth  sat  still  and  silent  till  he  had  finished,  and  then 
turned  with  a  face  of  wrath  upon  Tugmutton,  who  immedi 
ately  began  to  cry. 

"  Hush,  Richard  !"  exclaimed  Harrington,  stopping  Went 
worth  in  the  furious  speech  he  was  about  to  pour  upon  the 
miserable  squab.  "  Don't  use  one  word  of  reproach  to.  him. 
Poor  boy  !  He  suffers  enough  as  it  is.  See,"  he  whispered, 
"  it  is  a  loving  creature,  and  you  have  hurt  his  poor  heart. 
Now  say  something  to  soothe  him." 

Wentworth  choked  down  his  rage,  and  sat  still  for  an  in 
stant.  Then,  forcing  himself  to  smile,  he  rose,  and  went  over 
to  Tugmutton,  who  was  roaring  in  a  muffled  undertone  of 
heart-broken  grief. 

"There,  Tuggy,  my  boy,  don't  cry,"  he  said  soothingly, 
patting  him  on  the  shoulder.  "  I'm  sorry  I  looked  at  you  so, 
but  I  didn't  mean  anything." 

"  My  gosh,  Mr.  Wentworth,  I  feel  as  if  the  light  of  other 


HARRINGTON. 


445 


days  was  fled,"  howled  Tugmutton,  reminiscent  in  his  anguish 
of  a  line  from  the  song  he  had  picked  up  somewhere. 

Wentworth,  mad  as  he  was,  felt  a  strong  disposition  to 
laugh. 

"  Never  mind,  Tuggy,"  he  said  lightly.  "  Cheer  up.  It'll 
be  all  right." 

"  If  I  could  on'y  see  Brudder  Baby  in  my  affliction,"  sobbed 
Tugmutton,  "  'pears  to  me,  it  would  be  a  reviver.  But  I  can't, 
an'  I'm  wus  off  than  a  bob-tail  horse  in  fly-time." 

"  Cheer  up,  Charles,"  said  Harrington,  "  you  shall  see 
Brother  Baby  soon.  Don't  cry." 

11  Yes,  don't  cry,  whatever  you  do,"  said  Wentworth,  "  for 
Drying's  bad  for  the  liver.  Here's  something  to  remember  me 
by,"  and  he  gave  him  a  half  dollar. 

Tugmutton,  with  a  feeling  that  his  liver  was  in  immediate 
peril,  and  touched  by  Went  worth's  munificence,  took  the 
money  with  a  duck  of  his  head,  and  immediately  knuckled 
away  his  tears  with  his  big  paws. 

"  The  young  devil,"  muttered  Wentworth,  walking  back  to 
his  chair.  "Ought  to  have  a  sound  flogging  for  his  mischief,  in 
stead  of  a  half  dollar  ;  but  that's  Harrington  all  over,  and  he . 
just  makes  a  fool  of  me." 

"  What  are  you  saying  to  yourself,  Richard  ?"  asked  Har 
rington,  with  a  wan  smile. 

"  Nothing,  nothing,"  said  Wentworth,  hurriedly.  "  But  now 
what's  to  be  done  with  Roux  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  sadly  responded  Harrington  ;  "  when  he 
hears  of  his  brother's  capture,  I  fear  it  will  kill  him  or  drive 
him  crazy." 

"  Oh,  by  Jupiter  !  but  he  musn't  hear  of  it,"  replied  Went 
worth — "  at  least  not  yet  a  while,  till  we  see  if  this  mischief 
can't  be  remedied  someway.  We  may  get  hold  of  Antony 
again,  you  know,  for  he's  not  out  of  Boston  yet.  Meanwhile, 
you  must  go  up  and  tell  Roux  that  while  he  was  asleep  you 
sent  Antony  off  to  Worcester." 

"No,  Richard,"  returned  Harrington,  "I  can't  tell  a  lie. 
If  I  could,  how  could  I  bear  to  go  up,  and  look  into  that  poor 
man's  face,  and  say  that  ?  I  can't  do  it." 


446  HARRINGTON. 

"  You  can't,  eh  ?"  returned  Wentworth,  reddening.  "  Then 
I  can.  Hark  you,  Harrington  :  I  may  have  told  fibs  in  my 
life,  but.  I  can  say,  with  Alfieri,  that  I'm  a  man  of  as  few  lies 
as  anybody.  Still,  whan  the  time  comes  for  a  bouncer,  let  it 
be  a  big  one,  I  say,  and  handsomely  done.  In  my  judgment, 
the  time  has  come  now,  and  up-stairs  I'm  going  to  do  the 
deed.  After  which,  if  I  don't  grab  Antony  back  again,  even 
if  I  hare  to  go  all  the  way  to  Louisiana  to  do  it,  then  Emily 
Ames  will  never  be  Emily  Wentworth.  So  !" 

And  with  his  handsome  face  flushed  and  kindled,  Trent- 
worth  walked  out  of  the  library  and  up-stairs  to  Roux's  room. 

"  Where's  my  brother  Ant'ny,"  cried  Roux,  with  a  wild  face, 
the  minute  he  saw  him.  "  I  waked  up,  and  he's  not  here,  and 
I'm  afeard  of  my  life  for  him." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Roux,  don't  be  at  all  alarmed,  for  Antony  is 
perfectly  safe,"  said  Went  worth,  blandly,  with  an  air  of  the 
most  perfect  smiling  composure. 

Roux  put  his  dark  hand  over  his  mouth  as  was  his  wont,  and 

looked  at  Wentworth  with  a  wistful  dubiety,  as  wondering  if 

he  spoke  the  truth.     But  there  was  truth  in  every  lineament 

of  Wentworth's  smiling  countenance,  and  Roux's  gaze  wan- 

'dered  downward  to  the  floor. 

"I've  been  mighty  skeered,  Mr.  Wentworth,"  he  said, 
timidly.  "  I  was  afeard  all  wasn't  right  somehow." 

"  Perfectly  right,  Mr.  Roux,"  pursued  Weutworth.  "  You 
know  we  were  going  to  send  you  up  to  Worcester  on  Monday 
or  Tuesday.  But  we  had  a  chance  this  evening  to  send  An 
tony  on  by  private  conveyance,  and  as  we  thought  that  safer 
than  the  cars,  we  let  him  go.  You  were  asleep,  and  as  you 
were  to  see  him  again  so  soon,  we  thought  we  wouldn't  waken 
you.  Tugmutton's  gone  on  with  him,  and  to-morrow  or  next 
day,  you  are  to  follow.  I  thought  I'd  just  come  up  and  tell 
you,  lest  you  should  be  anxious." 

"  I'm  very  much  obleeged  to  you,  Mr.  Wentworth,"  said 
Roux,  smiling  and  bowing,  "  and  I  feel  mighty  relieved  to  hear 
this,  sir,  for  I  begun  to  be  proper  skeered." 

"  Indeed  ?"  said  Wentworth,  blandly,  "  I'm  sorry.  But  it's 
all  right.  Good  evening." 


HARRINGTON.  447 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Wentworth,"  returned  the  joyful  Roux, 
bending  himself  double  in  response  to  the  easy  and  graceful 
bow  with  which  Wentworth  took  leave. 

They  were  all  sitting  in  silence  when  he  entered  the  library. 

"  There,"  said  he,  seating  himself  with  an  air  of  grave  satis 
faction,  "  I've  told  the  biggest  whopper  I  ever  told  in  my  life, 
and  if  you  only  knew  the  virtuous  glow  and  elevation  of  spirit 
I  feel,  you'd  all  go  and  tell  one  apiece  to  get  your  souls  in  the 
same  condition.  I've  saved  poor  Roux  from  awful  suffering, 
maybe  death  or  madness,  and  I'd  do  it  again  if  it  was  necessary. 
I  never  told  a  thundering  lie  before,  but  now  I've  done  it,  and 
done  it  well,  and,  when  Sterne's  Accusing  Angel  bears  it  up  to 
Heaven's  Chancery,  if  the  Recording  Angel  doesn't  drop  the 
biggest  tear  upon  it  his  lachrymal  glands  can  furnish,  and  blot 
it  out  forever,  then  I  trust  the  Lord  will  turn  him  out  of  office 
for  not  understanding  his  duty,  that's  all.  I'm  sorry  if  you 
blame  me,  Harrington,  but  there's  a  happy  man  up-stairs  to 
balance  my  side  of  the  ledger." 

"  I  am  not  your  conscience,  Richard,"  said  Harrington,  sim 
ply.  "  There  are  some  truths  that  come  from  hell,  and  there 
are  some  lies  that  savor  of  heaven.  I  believe  such  falsehoods 
as  yours  to  be  among  the  latter.  I  sometimes  almost  wish  I 
could  tell  them." 

The  tears  sprang  to  Richard's  eyes. 

"Ah,  Harrington,"  said  he,  dejectedly,  "it's  all  very  well 
for  me  to  talk,  but  I  feel  poorer  in  spirit,  for  having  said,  even 
at  such  an  urging,  what  was  not  true.  You  are  a  nobler  man 
than  I,  for  you  would  not  lie  for  the  man  you  would  die  for.  No 
matter,"  he  added,  recklessly,  "I  could  not  do  other 
wise." 

Harrington  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  and  sat  silent. 
Emily,  in  a  dazed  condition,  looked  slowly  from  one  to  the 
other.  But  Muriel,  after  a  moment's  pause,  rose  from  her 
seat,  put  her  arms  around  Richard,  and  kissed  him. 

"  I  kiss  away  the  good  sin,  dear  Raffaello,"  she  said,  with 
sad  playfulness,  caressing  his  curly  head.  "The  brave  and 
generous  good  sin." 

She  stood  by  him  a  minute,  with  her  hands  resting  on  his 


4:48  HAKKINGTON. 

head,  and  her  beautiful,  exalted  face  upturned,  then  noiselessly 
glided  to  her  seat,  and  slowly  sank  down. 

"  Now,  Harrington,  what  are  we  to  do  ?"  said  Wentworth, 
drying  the  tears  from  his  eyes.  "  My  good  sin,  'as  Muriel  calls 
it,  staves  off  Roux's  trouble  for  a  couple  of  days,  but  if  we 
can't  get  hold  of  Antony,  it  will  be  terrible." 

"I  have  only  one  thought,  and  that  is  a  forlorn  one," 
replied  Harrington.  "  I  am  waiting  for  Mrs.  Eastman  to 
return.  If  her  brother  does  not  consent  to  liberate  this  man, 
or  if  she  cannot  bring  herself  to  bear  public  action  on  this 
matter,  I  shall  go  at  once  to  my  house,  get  my  pistols,  and 
search  the  Soliman  for  Antony." 

At  this  astonishing  declaration,  which  Harrington  made 
very  quietly,  they  all  stared.  Even  Muriel  looked  amazed. 
But  Harrington,  unconscious  of  their  wondering  looks,  sat  in 
sad  abstraction,  brooding  on  his  forlorn  determination. 

"  That  will  compromise  no  one  but  the  captain  of  the  brig," 
he  said  presently.  "  A  writ  of  habeas  corpus  would  involve 
Atkins,  but  a  rescue  of  this  sort  concerns  only  myself  and  that 
captain." 

"  But,  dear  John,"  said  Emily,  with  a  slight  shiver,  "  there 
will  be  men  on  board  the  vessel,  and  they  will  never  permit 
this." 

Harrington's  broad  nostrils  quivered  in  the  marble  stillness 
of  his  face,  and  his  blue  eyes  gleamed. 

"  It  will  go  hard  with  any  men  who  step  between  me  and 
my  purpose  to-night,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  quiet  voice,  which 
made  their  blood  thrill.  "  The  strength  of  ten  is  in  me  now, 
and  I  will  cripple  whoever  undertakes  to  oppose  me.  If  they 
outnumber  these  naked  hands,  I  have  my  pistols.  I  will  not 
be  balked.  If  Antony  is  on  board  the  Soliman,  I  will  take  him 
away  with  me,  or  leave  my  body  beside  him.  Gladly  would  I 
respect  the  law  and  order  of  society,  but  it  is  the  day  of 
slavers  and  traders,  and  civilization  sleeps." 

"  Yes,"  impetuously  cried  Wentworth,  "  and  when  civiliza 
tion  sleeps,  up,  gentlemen  and  chevaliers,  for  it  is  the  hour  of 
chivalry  1" 

Harrington  looked  calmly  into  his  glowing  and  electric  face. 


HARRINGTON.  449 

"  You  say  well,  Richard,"  he  replied.  "  When  civilization 
lies  inert,  and  the  organized  mass  either  helps  or  does  not 
hinder  the  daily  outrage  to  humanity,  it  is  time  for  every  gen 
tleman  to  take  upon  himself  the  vow  which  bound  the  antique 
chevaliers  to  suffer  no  injustice,  and  to  succor  the  oppressed 
and  helpless.  That  is  the  time  to  try  what  redress  lies  in  the 
individual  arm.  That  is  the  hour  of  chivalry." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  in  which  a  subtle  flame  of  enthusi 
asm,  born  from  the  colloquy,  beat  in  the  veins  of  all  but  Har 
rington.  In  him  there  was  no  enthusiasm,  but  cold  and  sad 
determination. 

"  But,  John/'  said  Emily,  at  length,  "  you  will  not  go  on 
this  desperate  adventure  alone  ?" 

"  Yes.     Alone,"  he  replied. 

"You  shall  not !"  she  exclaimed,  with  flashing  eyes  and  her 
lit  face  aglow,  stopping  the  fiery  answer  just  bursting  from  the 
lips  of  Wentworth.  "  Richard  shall  go  with  you,  and  I  wish 
I  had  twenty  lovers  to  send  on  such  an  errand." 

Harrington  looked  at  her  with  a  faint  color  on  his  mel 
ancholy  countenance.  As  for  Wentworth,  he  sank  back 
in  his  chair,  flushed  and  throbbing  with  boundless  pride  in 
Emily. 

"  Emily,"  said  Harrington,  "  think  1  You  yourself  suggested 
the  danger  of  this  expedition,  and  there  is  danger,  for  if  we  are 
opposed,  it  will  be  by  sailors,  who  are  not  slow  to  handle 
knives  in  a  quarrel.  Now  think  coolly.  It  would  be  dreadful 
if  Richard  were  brought  home  to  you  dead." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  paling  countenance,  proud,  though 
the  tears  gathered  in  her  lustrous  eyes. 

"  If  he  died  in  trying  to  save  a  poor  man  from  a  life  worse 
than  the  worst  death,"  she  answered  with  a  quivering  lip,  "  I 
would  think  of  him  as  gone  to  our  Savior's  rest,  and  bear  my 
sorrow  like  a  joy  till  I  died  and  found  him  with  God.  Say 
no  more,  Harrington.  He  shall  go  with  you." 

"  That  I  will,"  cried  Wentworth,  as  springing  to  his  feet, 
and  leaping  to  the  large  fauteuil  in  which  sat  Emily,  he  threw 
himself  by  her  side,  and  clasped  her  in  his  arms.  "  Ay,  marry 
will  I  go,  and  wo  to  the  nautical  mind  that  shall  conceive  the 


4:50  HAKKINGTON. 

idea  of  assaulting  me,  after  the  speech  I  have  heard  from  you, 
Emily,  for  on  that  depraved  and  abandoned  sailor  will  I  exe 
cute,  with  Berserker  fury,  all  that  Bagasse  has  taught  me,  and 
I  swear  it  by  this  kiss  !" 

And  with  a  kiss  on  her  carnation  mouth,  that  brought  the 
rich  blood  to  her  face  like  fire,  he  sprang  up  gaily  with  an 
exulting  countenance,  and  flung  himself  into  his  chair. 

"  Bravo  \n  cried  Muriel,  with  a  flash  of  her  usual  gaiety, 
"  Cupid  and  Mars  in  arms  !  Richard,"  she  added  more  seri 
ously,  "you  have  my  thanks.  And  you,  too,  flower  of  Epis 
copalians,  bright  battle-rose  of  womankind.  Yes,  John,  you 
must  take  Richard  with  you." 

"  I  will,  I  will,"  he  impetuously  cried.  "  Oh,  why  should  I 
despond  when  there  are  hearts  like  these  !  Would  to  God, 
that  I  could  sow  the  world  with  such  as  you,  Emily  ;  with  such 
as  you,  Richard  !  Yes,  Richard,  you  shall  go.  And  you, 
Muriel,"  he  added,  sinking  into  mournful  playfulness,  "you, 
too,  give  me  leave  of  what  may  prove  eternal  absence  from  you." 

" Not  eternal, "she  answered,  with  a  radiant  smile  ;  " not  in 
the  worst  event  eternal.  Go,  then,  and  even  were  it  eternal,  still 
go!" 

A  vapor  of  fire  mounted  to  his  brain,  and  his  heart  beat 
thick  and  fast.  He  did  not  reply,  but  sat  motionless,  with  his 
eyes  covered  by  his  hand,  and  all  his  being  pulsing  in  solemn 
sweetness. 

"  Hark  !"  whispered  Muriel,  "  she  is  coming.  I  hear  her 
step  on  the  stairs." 

Her  ear  must  have  been  fine  indeed,  for  listening  they  could 
hear  nothing. 

"  No,  I  am  not  mistaken,"  she  said,  seeing  their  incredulous 
faces.  "  Well  I  know  that  soft,  slow  step.  She  is  coming, 
and  she  has  failed.  Oh,  Lemuel  Atkins,  I  pity  you  !" 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  and  then  the  library  door 
swung  slowly  open,  and  with  a  face  severe  and  ashen,  and  a 
decrepit  step,  Mrs.  Eastman  came  in.  They  all  rose. 

"  I  have  seen  him,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  frigid,  desolate  voice. 
"  I  have  told  him  everything.  I  have  knelt  to  him  in  supplica 
tion.  Useless — useless.  He  refused  me." 


HARRINGTON.  451 

"  What  did  he  say,  mother  ?"  murmured  Muriel. 

"  Do  not  ask  me,"  she  replied.  "I  am  heart-sick.  Ask  me 
nothing.  I  told  him  that  it  was  in  our  house  the  man  had 
found  shelter.  And  he  said  he  was  glad  to  hear  it,  for  it  was 
a  guaranty  that  he  would  not  be  disturbed  in  the  execution  of 
his  purpose.  He  has  a  power  of  attorney  from  Lafitte,  he  told 
me,  to  act  as  his  agent  in  the  matter,  and  if  we  presumed  to 
interfere  further,  he  said,  he  would  immediately  bring  the  case 
before  a  Commissioner,  and  have  the  man  returned  by  law. 
That  was  all." 

They  remained  silent  a  little  while,  looking  with  pity  on  the 
frozen  desolation  of  her  still  and  pallid  features. 

"  Mother,"  said  Muriel,  "  what  shall  we  do  ?  Are  you 
willing  to  let  us  act  publicly  in  this  matter  now  ?" 

"  Do  not«ask  me,"  she  faltered^  "  Give  me  a  little  time  to 
think.  I  am  going  to  my  chamber.  Don't  disturb  me.  I 
want  to  be  alone.  I  will  think,  and  to-morrow  I  will  let  you 
know." 

They  stood  with  bowed  heads,  touched  by  the  solemn  win 
ter  of  her  sorrow,  and  she  feebly  glided  from  the  room.  Emily y 
after  a  moment's  hesitation,  followed  her. 

"  Ah,  me,  I  fear  the  case  is  hopeless,"  sighed  Muriel 
"  Everything  depends  now  on  your  success  in  finding  Antony 
on  board  the  Soliman." 

"  Everything,"  replied  Harrington.  "  Yet,  Muriel,  on  re 
flection,  it  is,  perhaps,  as  well  that  we  should  not  seek  a  pub 
lic  redress.  For  if  the  writ  of  habeas  corpus  failed  in  its  exe 
cution,  as  it  probably  would,  Mr.  Atkins  would  at  once  get 
out  a  warrant  for  Antony,  and  then  he  would  be  lost,  indeed. 
Yes,  lost — but  by  the  Eternal  God  !"  he  vehemently  cried, 
lifting  his  arms  to  heaven,  "  never  should  he,  never  shall  any 
fugitive,  be  taken  from  Boston  without  a  desperate  effort  to 
prevent  it.  I  have  seen  one  slave  dragged  hence,  and  that 
sent  my  brains  to  my  hands.  Never  while  I  live  will  I  see 
another.  The  hour  that  sees  tie  next  man  haled  before  a 
Commissioner,  will  see  me.  burst  into  their  court-room,  armed 
to  the  teeth,  and  I  will  take  him  from  them,  if  I  have  to  do  it 
through  a  lane  of  corpses,  or  leave  my  body  beside  him.  Then, 


452  HARRINGTON. 

if  I  live,  let  them  try  me  for  treason,  and  if  I  die,  let  them  put 
a  traitor's  stone  upon  my  grave  1" 

His  arms  fell  heavily,  and  he  strode  away  toward  the  door, 

"  Think,  Muriel,"  he  cried,  turning  suddenly,  "  think  of  the 
baseness  of  this  uncle  of  yours.  To  refuse  his  own  sister  the 
man  her  charity  had  sheltered  !  If  he  had  found  refuge  in  the 
house  of  a  stranger,  I  could  conceive  it  ;  but  to  take  him  from 
here !  And  she  knelt  to  him.  Knelt  to  him  in  her  agony, 
and  he  could  deny  her  !  Oh,  avarice,  avarice  !  His  wretched 
cotton-trade  is  affected,  and  to  that  he  sacrifices  the  ties  of 
blood,  the  feelings  of  a  sister,  honor,  pity,  charity,  manhood, 
everything.  Let  me  not  think  of  it.  Come,  Richard,  come  ; 
let  us  try  our  fortune." 

At  that  moment  Emily  returned. 

"  I  have  prevailed  upon  Mrs.  Eastman,"  she  said,  "  to  sleep 
with  me  to-night.  I  could  not  bear  to  think  of  her  being 
alone  in  this  affliction." 

"  Kind  Emily,"  said  Muriel,  fondly  embracing  her.  "  You 
anticipated  me.  Alas  !  poor  mother  !  But,  come,  Emily, 
say  good  bye  to  Richard,  for  he  is  going." 

Emily  ran  to  Wentworth's  arms,  and  kissed  him. 

"  You'll  come  back  safe,  I  know,"  she  said,  cheerfully. 

"That  I  will,"  he  returned,  with  a  gay  laugh  ;  "  and  wo 
to  the  man  of  the  tarry  trowsers  who  interferes  with  my  safe 
return." 

"  Adieu,  Muriel,"  said  Harrington,  embracing  and  kissing 
her.  "  We  will  not  part  forever,"  he  added,  with  a  sad  smile, 
"  for  I  feel  that  I  am  to  come  back  again." 

"  So  do  I,"  she  replied.  "  Good  bye.  We  will  wait  tea 
for  you,  gentlemen." 

They  departed,  and  Muriel  and  Emily  sat  down,  under  the 
eyes  of  the  silent  Tugmutton,  to  await  their  return. 

In  two  hours  they  came  back  disconsolate,  for  they  had  not 
found  Antony.  They  had  found  the  Soliman  lying  at  Long 
Wharf,  and  had  boarded  h^r.  Nobody  happened  to  be  in 
the  vessel  but  a  stupid  sailor,  half  $nmk,  who,  when  Harring 
ton  told  him,  very  simply,  that  he  came  to  look  for  a  man  hid 
den  on  board,  imagined  that  he  was  a  policeman,  and  got  him 


HARRINGTON.  453 

a  lantern.  With  this  Harrington  and  Wentworth  searched' 
every  hole  and  corner  of  the  vessel,  but  Antony  was  not  there. 
In  fact,  Bangham  had  him  tied  hand  and  foot,  and  stowed 
away  in  the  back  room  of  a  low  boozing  ken  on  Commercial 
street,  whose  landlord  was  a  friend  of  the  captain's.  On 
leaving  the  vessel,  the  young  men  found  th'e  sailor  lying  in  a 
sottish  sleep,  and  as  they  were  certain  that  he  would  remem 
ber  nothing  on  the  morrow  of  his  visitors,  they  left  him  with 
out  buying  his  secrecy,  as  they  had  intended,  and  returned 
with  heavy  hearts  to  Temple  street. 

"And  so,"  said  Harrington,  concluding  his  narration,  "as 
there  is  nothing  more  to  be  done  till  to-morrow,  if  then,  let 
us  try  to  forget  it  all  as  much  as  we  can.  The  Soliman  sails 
on  Tuesday  night,  the  sailor  told  us.  I  shall  riot  abandon  the 
hope  of  finding  the  man  on  board  of  her  till  she  has  gone." 

He  took  a  revolver  from  his  breast  pocket  as  he  ended,  and 
laid  it  on  the  mantel,  then  wearily  sat  down. 

"  Come,"  said  Muriel,  "  let  us  go  to  tea.  We  shall  all  feel 
better  for  a  little  refreshment.  Come,  Charles." 

Tugmutton,  whose  grief  had  not  injured  his  appetite,  which 
was  not  the  case  with  the  others,  bounced  up  nimbly,  and  fol 
lowed  them. 

After  tea,  the  doleful  Puck  was  charged  not  to  go  near  his 
father,  and  was  provided  with  a  separate  room.  Slowly  and 
sadly  the  evening  deepened  on,  till  at  last  the  hour  of  slumber 
spread  its  dove's  wings  over  all  their  sorrows. 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

WRECK     AND      RUIN. 


THE  next  day  arose  in  the  dazaiing  effulgence  of  a  fervid 
sun.  It  was  the  thirty-first  of  May — the  last  day  of  spring — 
but  the  light  and  heat  of  June  filled  the  streets  of  the  crowded 
city,  under  a  cloudless  and  resplendent  blue. 


454  HARRINGTON. 

Anticipating  a  crowd  of  callers,  Muriel,  unwilling  to  see 
them  with  this  trouble  on  her  mind,  gave  Patrick  orders  to 
admit  no  one  but  Went  worth  and  Captain  Fisher,  Harrington 
having  sent  for  the  latter. 

The  Captain  arrived  about  ten  o'clock,  and  his  features 
grew  all  atwist,  and  his  head  all  awry,  the  moment  he  laid 
eyes  on  Harrington.  There  is  no  knowing  the  unimaginable 
screw  he  would  have  got  himself  into  could  he  have  seen  the 
ghastly  face  the  young  man  had  worn  the  evening  before. 
To-day  Harrington  was  only  intensely  pallid,  and  his  face  was 
resolute,  stern,  and  calm.  While  the  Captain  yet  stared  at 
him,  and  before  he  could  express  his  astonishment,  Harrington 
bade  him  sit  down,  and  at  once  told  him  the  whole  story. 

The  moment  he  had  done,  the  Captain  rose  in  awful  wrath, 
and  began  to  swear.  Such  oaths  !  No  spruce-gum  imprecations 
then,  but  tobacco  of  every  conceivable  brand,  did  the  infuria 
ted  old  seaman  pour  forth  in  a  steady  stream.  The  army  that 
swore  terribly  in  Flanders,  never  swore  worse  than  he  in  his 
wrath.  Lafitte,  Atkins,  Boston,  Boston  merchants,  kidnappers, 
slaveholders,  and  slavery  in  the  abstract  and  in  the  concrete,  did 
he  shower  with  curses.  Never  had  the  Captain  such  a  backslid 
ing  before.  Harrington,  who  perhaps  thought  of  Sterne's 
Recording  Angel,  with  his  disposition  to  blot  out  with  tears 
the  record  of  what  Muriel  called  good  sins,  let  him  rip  away 
till,  as  the  man  in  the  play  says,  he  got  all  the  bad  stuff  out 
of  him,  and  tumbled  into  his  seat  exhausted  with  his  rage. 

The  interview  lasted  about  an  hour,  and  without  result. 
Harrington  had  thought  it  best  to  let  the  Captain  know  what 
had  happened,  and  did  not  hope  that  he  could  suggest  any 
action,  as  under  the  circumstances  he  could  not.  Profoundly 
depressed  with  the  knowledge  that  Mrs.  Eastman's  invincible 
feeling  shut  out  even  the  forlorn  hope  of  legal  or  anti-slavery 
effort,  the  old  man  departed  with  a  self-imposed  promise  to  re 
main  all  day  on  the  wharf  and  watch  the  Solirnan. 

Mrs.  Eastman's  feeling*  was  indeed  invincible.  She  said 
nothing,  but  as  they  saw  her  moving  about  the  house  like  a 
ghost,  they  understood  from  her  austere  and  ashen  features 
that  she  could  not  bring  her  heart  to  consent  to  her  brother's 


HARRINGTON.  455 

public  dishonor,  and  her  own  related  disgrace.     The  family 
esprit  de.  corps  was  mighty  in  her. 

Muriel,  meanwhile,  thinking  that  the  true  disgrace  and  dis 
honor  would  be  to  have  Antony  sacrificed  to  any  private  feel 
ing,  however  sacred,  was  holding  busy  audience  with  her  teem 
ing  brain,  as  to  the  duty  of  disregarding  her  mother's  feeling, 
and  resolutely  taking  matters  into  her  own  hands.  The  chief 
consideration  that  withheld  her  decision  now,  was  that  the 
captain  of  the  Soliman  might  deny,  when  the  writ  was  served 
on  him,  that  the  man  was  in  his  possession,  and  that  then,  in 
the  interim  of  delay,  Mr.  Atkins  would  procure  a  regular  war 
rant,  which  would  be  fatal  to  Antony.  Besides,  she  well 
knew  that  the  moment  the  fugitive  was  brought  before  a  Com 
missioner,  the  dauntless  Harrington,  thoroughly  trained  in  the 
use  of  arms,  and  with  the  might  of  ten  men  in  him,  would 
burst  into  the  court-room  like  a  thunderbolt  of  war,  and  slay 
every  man  that  stood  between  him  and  the  rescue,  or  be  him 
self  slain.  There  was  good  blood  in  the  veins  of  young  Muriel 
— the  old  red  blood  of  the  Achaian  women  who  sent  their  dear 
ones  to  Platea  with  the  cry  of  "  return  with  your  shields  or 
upon  them  n — the  old  red  blood  of  the  New  England  women 
who  armed  their  husbands  for  Lexington  ;  and  strong  in  her 
faith  of  the  deathlessness  of  life,  she  did  not  shrink  from  the 
thought  of  his  death  in  such  a  cause  ;  but  still  she  preferred 
that  every  peaceful  means  of  obtaining  the  end  should  be  em 
ployed  before  the  last  stern  issue  should  be  made. 

While  she  yet  debated  with  herself,  Wentworth  arrived.  A 
hasty  council  was  at  once  held  between  the  three,  and  it  was 
resolved  that  Harrington  should  wait  on  Mr.  Atkins,  with  a 
proposition  to  buy  Antony  at  any  price  within  reason. 

Accompanied  by  Wentworth,  Harrington  at  once  set  out 
for  Long  Wharf.  It  was  then  nearly  noon,  and  the  crowded 
streets  through  which  they  passed  were  salient  and  swarming 
in  the  vertical  splendor.  A  few  minutes'  walk  brought  them 
to  the  place  of  their  destination,  and  Wentworth  agreeing  to 
wait  outside,  wandered  across  the  street  to  the  shipping,  while 
Harrington  turned  in  to  the  counting-room. 
*He  paused  a  moment  in  the  dusky  ware-room  opening  on 


456  HARRINGTON. 

the  street,  and  surveyed  its  contents.  Amongst  other  mer 
chandise  was  visible  a  pile  of  dirty  cotton-bales,  burst  here 
and  there  with  their  fullness,  and  the  white  staple  bulging 
from  the  rents.  The  thick,  musty,  stifling  smell  of  cotton 
choked  the  air  of  the  ware-room.  It  was  the  same  smell  that 
had  stifled  the  conscience  of  the  merchant,  the  conscience  of 
his  fellows,  the  conscience  of  the  nation — yes,  honor,  duty, 
courage,  compassion,  manhood,  independence,  all  that  was 
truly  American.  , 

Pausing  only  for  a  moment,  Harrington  went  up-stairs  into 
the  office,  and  glancing  at  the  clerks  by  the  desks,  looked  away 
and  saw  the  merchant  sitting  with  his  back  to  him  in  the  little 
inner  counting-room,  and  by  his  side  Driscoll,  the  stevedore. 
He  at  once  passed  forward,  noticing,  as  he  entered  the  count 
ing-room  that  Driscoll  had  a  twenty-dollar  gold  piece  in  his 
hand.  Without  thinking  anything  of  this,  Harrington  nodded 
to  the  stevedore,  and  bowed  gravely  to  Mr.  Atkins  as  the  latter 
turned  with  a  sudden  flush  and  a  half  scowl  toward  him. 

"  Mr.  Atkins,"  said  the  young  man,  courteously,  "  will  you 
favor  me  with  a  few  minutes'  conversation  with  you  ?" 

The  merchant's  first  impulse  was  to  order  him  out  of  the 
office,  but  Harrington's  manner  was  at  once  so  courteous  and 
so  dignified  that  he  found  it  difficult  to  treat  him  with  inci 
vility. 

'•  Driscoll,"  said  he,  "just  wait  outside  a  few  minutes.  Now, 
Mr.  Harrington,  what  is  it  ?" 

Driscoll  withdrew  just  outside  of  the  open  door,  where  he 
remained  standing,  while  Harrington  took  a  chair  beside  the 
merchant,  who  turned  his  obstinate,  energetic  face  straight  to 
the  wall  before  him,  and  linked  his  fingers,  with  the  air  of  one 
who  was  resolved, to  hear  patiently  all  that  could  be  said,  and 
not  be  moved  by  anything. 

" Mr.  Atkins,"  began  Harrington,  "I  have  called  to  see 
you  about  this  man  Antony.  I  am  aware  that  he  escaped 
from  New  Orleans  in  one  of  your  vessels,  and  I  fully  appreci 
ate  the  difficulties  of  the  position  in  which  his  escape  has 
placed  you.  If  it  should  happen  to  become  known,  it  not  only 
injures  the  credit  and  character  of  your  house  in  New  Orleans, 


HARRINGTON.  457 

but  it  renders  your  captain  liable  to  imprisonment.  Is  it  not 
so,  Mr.  Atkins  ?" 

"  It  is,  Mr.  Harrington,"  replied  the  merchant,  somewhat 
disconcerted  by  the  gentle  suavity  of  Harrington's  manner, 
and  by  his  fair  statement  of  the  matter,  which  were  not  what 
he  had  anticipated. 

"  On  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Atkins,"  pursued  Harrington,  "  is 
the  fact  that  this  negro  escaped,  as  there  is  no  reason  to  doubt, 
from  a  master  of  unusual  hardness,  and  only  after  being  very 
cruelly  treated.  Furthermore,  he  chanced  to  find  shelter  with 
your  sister,  who  feels  a  deep  sympathy  for  his  misfortunes,  and 
would  be  very  "Seriously  injured  both  in  health  and  spirits  if  he 
were  returned  to  the  unhappy  life  from  which  he  has  fled. 
Now  I  assume  of  course  that  you  do  not  wish  to  unnecessarily 
afflict  this  poor  fellow,  still  less  to  grieve  Mrs.  Eastman.  All 
that  you  wish  is  to  be  rid  of  the  unfortunate  consequences 
which  his  escape  is  likely  to  entail  upon  you  in  New  Orleans. 
Is  not  that  the  case  ?" 

Mr.  Atkins  stared  at  the  wall,  with  an  uneasy  look,  and 
twiddled  his  thumbs. 

"  Something  of  that  sort,  Mr.  Harrington,  something  of 
that  sort,"  he  nervously  replied. 

"  Exactly,"  returned  Harrington.  "  Now  I  take  the  liberty 
to  suggest  that  this  matter  can  be  readily  arranged  to  the 
satisfaction  of  all  parties,  and  every  unpleasant  consequence  be 
avoided.  I  am  commissioned  to  say  that  the  value  of  this 
man,  and  even  twice  or  three  times  his  value,  will  be  paid  to 
his  owner.  It  will  be  easy  for  you  to  state  this  in  a  card  in 
the  New  Orleans  papers,  and  also  to  state  the  circumstances 
under  which  he  got  to  Boston  in  your  vessel.  Everybody 
will  see  at  once  that  you  and  your  captain  were  not  at  all 
responsible  for  his  escape,  and  this  frank  statement,  conjoined 
with  your  avowed  willingness  to  reimburse  the  owner  for  his 
loss,  will  not  only  free  you  from  all  suspicion  of  complicity  in 
his  flight,  but  will  raise  your  credit  as  an  honorable  man  in 
New  Orleans,  and  also  with  the  conservative  portion  of  the 
community  at  the  North.  Besides,  this  compromise  will  spare 
your  sister  and  niece  the  real  distress  they  will  feel  if  the  mau 


458  HARKINGTON. 

is  returned,  and  this  I  think  you  will  be  willing  to  do  if  you 
can  in  justice  to  all  other  parties  concerned.  This  arrange 
ment  will  not  only  cost  you  nothing,  but  benefit  you  materially, 
besides  satisfying  every  person  involved  in  the  matter.  Now, 
candidly,  is  not  this  a  fair  and  reasonable  proposition  ?" 

Mr.  Atkins  fidgeted  in  his  chair  for  a  minute,  unable  to 
deny  the  force  of  what  Harrington  had  said. 

"Well,  Mr.  Harrington,"  he  replied,  "I  admit  that  your 
plan  is  feasible  enough,  and  not  unfair,  certainly.  But  there 
is  one  difficulty  in  the  way.  Mr.  Lafitte  is  unwilling  to  lose 
this  man.  His  value  is.  not  more  than  twelve  hundred  dollars, 
but  I  am  convinced  that  Mr.  Lafitte  would  not.  take  five  thou 
sand  for  him." 

"Mr.  Atkins,  we  will  give  him  five  thousand,"  said  Har 
rington  . 

"But  I  tell  you  he  wouldn't  take  it,"  replied  the  mer 
chant. 

"  Well,  then,  we  will  give  him  ten  thousand,"  said  Harring 
ton. 

Mr.  Atkins  stared  at  him! 

"  Pshaw  !  Mr.  Harrington,  you  surely  wouldn't  be  such  a 
fool  as  to  give  that  sum  for  a  worthless  nigger,"  he  contemp 
tuously  answered. 

Harrington's  blood  grew  hot,  but  externally  he  kept  cool  as 
ice. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  he  said,  affably,  "  we  will  not  mention  the 
negro.  It  is  Mrs.  Eastman  who  is  concerned.  Your  niece 
will  willingly  give  ten  thousand  dollars  out  of  her  fortune  to 
spare  her  mother's  feelings.  And  surely  you  would  not  deny 
her  the  privilege  of  comforting  her  mother,  even  were  this  a 
mere  matter  of  prejudice." 

Mr.  Atkins  really  felt  cornered.  He  could  not  but  see  the 
various  solid  advantages  of  this  proposition.  But  Mr.  Atkins 
had  considerable  of  the  mule  in  his  composition, 

"Mr.  Harrington,"  said  he,  after  an  embarrassed  pause, 
"  suppose  Lafitte  wouldn't  be  willing  to  take  even  ten  thou 
sand." 

11  My  dear  Mr.  Atkins,"  replied  Harrington,  laughing — alas! 


HARRINGTON.  459 

he  found  it  hard  to  laugh,  poor  gentleman — "  do  you  not  see 
that  if  Mr.  Lafitte  refuses  to  take  so  extravagant  a  sum,  he 
will  only  make  himself  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  the  New 
Orleans  people.  Why,  they  will  hoot  at  him  !  And  besides, 
they  will  extol  your  public  spirit  to  the  skies.  It  will  give  you 
a  name  there  no  other  merchant  possesses.  Just  think  of  it  ! 
Why,  Lafitte  would  be  forced  to  accept  out  of  pure  shame, 
even  were  he  indifferent  to  the  advantage  of  having  the 
round  sum  of  ten  thousand  dollars." 

"  I  declare,  sir,  this  is  too  preposterously  absurd,"  said  the 
merchant,  growing  red  with  vexation  at  being  thus  tempted 
out  of  his  plan.  "  To  think  of  wasting  so  much  money  as  that 
for  such  a  purpose." 

'•'But,  Mr.  Atkins,"  replied  Harrington,  "large  as  the  sum 
is,  what  is  it  compared  with  your  sister's  peace  of  mind  ?  If 
you  only  knew  the  dreadful  state  of  distress  she  is  in,  you 
would  not  think  so.  True  her  distress  may  be  nonsensical,  but 
still  as  a  practical  man  you  will  be  willing  to  allow  that  we 
must  take  human  nature  as  we  find  it.  Besides,  we  need  not 
give  so  large  a  sum.  We  only  wish  to  give  enough  to  repair 
matters,  and  set  you  right  with  the  New  Orleans  folks. 
Lafitte  can  appraise  his  slave,  and  regard  for  public  opinion 
will  make  him  keep  within  reason.  Still  we  are  ready  to  do 
anything  rather  than  have  you  prejudiced  in  your  business, 
or  your  sister  injured  as,  at  her  time  of  life,  this  matter  would 
injure  her." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  interest  yourself  so  much  in 
this  affair,  Mr.  Harrington,"  grumbled  the  merchant. 

"  Pardon  me,  I  am  only  an  agent,"  replied  Harrington,  with 
a  sweet  civility  which  not  even  Atkins  could  resist.  "  I  hope 
you  will  excuse  me  if  I  have  said  anything  to  offend  your  sense 
of  propriety,  but  I  only  meant  to  suggest  a  way  out  of  this 
unpleasant  embroilment,  which  I  thought  might  not  have 
occurred  to  you,  and  which  I  am  sure  will  commend  itself  to 
your  judgment  as  a  practical  business  man,  and  one  who  only 
desires  fair  play  to  all  parties.  I  trust  there  is  no  offence  in 
this  Mr.  Atkins." 

"  Oh,  no  sir,  no  sir,"  said  the  merchant  hastily,  with  an  awk- 


460  HARRINGTON. 

ward  bow,  his  jaw  working  meanwhile  with  his  embarrassment 
at  the  deferential  politeness  with  which  Harrington  presented 
what  he  could  not  but  admit  was  an  unexceptionable  way  of 
settling  the  whole  matter.  "  No  offence  at  all,  sir.  But — well 
• — what  I — well  the  fact  is,  Mr.  Harrington,  you  know  my 
political  views,  which  of  course  you  don't  agree  with." 

"  We  will  not  differ  about  politics,  sir,"  replied  Harring 
ton  with  gracious  affability. 

"  No,  of  course  not,  of  course  not,"  fidgeted  Mr.  Atkins. 
"  But  this  is  the  point  :  There  has  been  too  much  tampering 
with  slave  property  in  this  country,  sir,  and  I  wanted  to  send 
that  man  back  that  Southern  men  might  see  that  we  are  de 
voted  to  their  interests,  and  can  promptly  return  their  property 
without  putting  them  to  the  trouble  of  legal  formalities." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  put  in  Harrington,  "  in  what  better  way  could 
you  prove  your  devotion  to  the  interests  of  Southern  men  than 
by  the  plan  I  mention  ?  Consider  how  inferior  the  return  of 
the  man  would  be  to  the  magnificent  offer  to  pay  ten  times  his 
value,  publicly  made,  and  promptly  accomplished.  The  one 
would  be  the  theme  of  limited  complimentary  mention,  but  the 
other  would  be  blazoned  far  and  wide,  and  loud  and  long.  A 
Northern  merchant  willing  to  sacrifice  ten  thousand  dollars 
even,  rather  than  loosen  one  bond  of  political  or  business  fel 
lowship  between  the  North  and  South  !  Why,  it  is  impossible 
that  you  should  not  see  the  superiority  of  this  measure  to  ac 
complish  the  very  end  you  have  in  view." 

Mr.  Atkins  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  working 
his  jaw  convulsively,  struggled  between  the  temptation  to 
yield,  and  the  obstinate  desire  to  carry  out  his  original  pur 
pose.  Harrington  saw  that  the  crisis  had  come,  and  fearing 
to  irritate  the  merchant  into  refusal  by  his  presence,  he  rose. 

"  Permit  me  to  leave  you  to  think  of  it,"  he  said  cour 
teously.  "  Just  give  it  candid  consideration,  solely  as  a  busi 
ness  matter,  and  with  regard  to  your  own  interests  and  politi 
cal  feelings,  and  let  me  call  again,  if  it  is  not  asking  too  much, 
at  any  time  you  may  mention." 

It  is  perfectly  impossible  to  describe  the  fine  tact  of  bear 
ing,  the  sweet  and  winning  courtesy  and  delicacy  with  which 


HARRINGTON.  461 

Harrington  conducted  himself  during  tins  difficult  interview. 
If  Lemuel  Atkins  had  not  been  more  stubborn  than  the  un- 
wedgeable  and  gnarled  oak,  he  would  have  soon  opened  to 
that  subtle  charm,  and  as  it  was,  he  began  to  open  to  it. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Harrington,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  "  Til  think 
of  it,  and  you  can  call  in  about — no  you  needn't,"  he  cried, 
with  a  sudden  revulsion,  turning  red  in  the  face  with  passion. 
"  I'll  be  damned  if  I'll  do  it  !  There.  It's  cursed  folly,  and 
I  won't  consent  to  it." 

Harrington's  trembling  heart  froze,  but  he  did  not  yet 
abandon  hope. 

"  Nay/'  said  he,  gently,  "  I  trust  you  will  not  decide  hastily. 
I  know  it  may  strike  you  unfavorably  in  one  view  of  it,  but  if 
after  careful  consideration  you  do  not  approve  the  course  I 
mention,  why  then  I  will  submit  to  your  maturer  judgment. 
Only  consider  it  calmly  and  candidly,  and  I  do  not  fear  the 
result." 

"  I  won't,"  snarled  the  merchant.  "  I  won't  consider  it  at 
all." 

"But  Mr.  Atkins" 

"  I  tell  you  I  won't.     Come,  bother  me  no  more  with  it." 

"  At  least,  sir,  give  one  moment's  consideration  to  the  suffer 
ing  your  sister  is  in." 

"  Oh,  damn  my  sister  !  What  do  I  care  for  her  suffering. 
Let  her  suffer.  I  tell  you,  I'll  send  that  black  scoundrel  back 
in  spite  of  her  and  you,  and  the  whole  pack  of  you,"  he  roared, 
purple  with  rage,  and  shaking  his  fist  at  Harrington. 

"  Mr.  Atkins,"  said  Harrington,  with  an  impressive  solemnity 
which  cooled  the  merchant  even  in  the  mad  heat  of  his  fury — 
"  you  know  the  nature  of  Mr.  Lafitte  as  well  as  I,  for  you  have 
had  dealings  with  him.  I  pray  you  to  consider  that  if  you 
send  that  man  back,  you  send  him  to  his  murder.  Murder  by 
the  most  merciless  torture,  Mr.  Atkins.  Can  you  bear  the 
responsibility  of  that  ?  Now  think  of  it  coolly." 

"  I  don't  care  for  his  murder,"  sullenly  growled  the  merchant. 
"  I'll  send  him,  whether  or  no." 

Harrington  saw  that  the  case  was  hopeless. 

"  Mr.  Atkins,"  he  said,  with  touching  gentleness,  "  do  not 


462  HARRINGTON. 

decide  this  matter  in  anger.     Pardon  me,  if  I  have  said  any 
thing  to  offend  you,  and  pray  think  of  this  again." 

"  Pve  heard  enough,"  returned  Atkins.  "  Let  me  hear  no 
more,  You  have  my  final  decision." 

"  At  least,"  replied  Harrington,  mournfully,  "  think  of  the 
future.  The  day  may  come  when  public  opinion  will  change. 
The  old  New  England  opposition  to  slavery  may  arise  again  even 
in  Boston.  Do  not  commit  yourself  by  such  an  act  as  this,  so 
that  a  few  years  hence  men  may  judge  you  harshly.  Think  of 
what  your  children  will  say  of  you  if  you  leave  them  a  name 
spotted  with  disgrace.  Think  of  that." 

"  It  is  a  matter  of  perfect  indifference  to  me  what  my  chil 
dren  will  say  of  me,"  coolly  replied  the  merchant,  with  a  yawn. 
"  Hark  you,  Mr.  Harrington,"  he  cried,  rising  to  his  feet,  and 
sternly  facing  the  young  man.  "  I'll  just  give  you  my  idea  of 
this  slavery  question,  and  one  which  involves  my  whole  action 
in  this  matter.  When  any  nation  concludes  that  it  is  for  the 
best  interests  and  prosperity  of  the  country  to  make  men  slaves — 
I  don't  care  whether  those  slaves  q,re  white  or  black — 110  man 
nor  body  of  men,  nor  any  other  nation,  has  a  right  to  interfere 
with,  or  in  any  way  prevent  that  nation's  making  them  slaves, 
and  keeping  them  in  slavery.  White  or  black,  it  makes  no 
difference.  This  nation  or  any  other  nation,  it's  all  the  same. 
Statesmen  have  settled  that — older  heads  than  yours  or  mine. 
That  principle  of  national  right  has  come  up,  as  a  question  of 
national  right,  before  the  sober,  sound,  conservative  statesman 
ship  of  the  American  Union,  and  that  statesmanship  has 
answered  it." 

"  How  has  it  answered  it  ?"  put  in  Harrington,  quickly, 
fixing  his  stern  and  searching  eyes  on  the  flushed  face  of  the 
merchant. 

"  How  has  it  answered  it  ?"  repeated  Mr.  Atkins,  with  a 
sarcastic  air.*  "  Well,  sir,  how  has  it  answered  it  ?" 

"  It  has  answered  it  with  the  roar  of  Decatur's  guns  under 
the  walls  of  Algiers  1"  thundered  Harrington,  with  a  look  of 
fire. 

Mr.  Atkins,  at  this  stunning  demolition  of  his  position, 
turned  red,  and  then  pale,  and  then  all  sorts  of  .colors,  and 


HARRINGTON.  463 

finally  sat  down  with  a  working  jaw,  and  a  face  of  utter  con 
fusion. 

"  That  is  the  way  the  sober,  sound,  conservative  statesman 
ship  of  the  Union, answered  that  question  of  national  right," 
sternly  continued  Harrington.  "  It  answered  from  the  blazing 
muzzles  of  Decatur's  cannon,  that  the  nation  that  undertakes 
to  hold  innocent  men  in  slavery  is  a  nation  of  pirates.  By  its 
own  answer  it  stands  condemned.  Every  State  in  this  Union, 
that  holds  innocent  men  in  slavery,  is  an  organized  piracy. 
The  Union  that  sanctions  the  crime,  and  makes  it  possible,  is 
another.  And  you,  Lemuel  Atkins,  trampling  on  your  sister's 
heart,  in  your  scoundrel  zeal  to  thrust  an  innocent  and  wretched 
man  into  that  pirate  hell  from  whence  his  own  bravery  freed 
him,  you  are  the  vilest,  because  the  meanest,  pirate  of  them  all. 
The  most  degraded  slaveholder  is  white  beside  such  a  wretch 
as  you.  Never  let  me  hear  again  of  Southern  infamy.  You, 
a  Northern  merchant,  kidnapping  your  brother — kidnapping  a 
man  whose  right  it  is  to  say  with  you,  in  his  prayers  to  Hea 
ven,  '  Our  Father ' — not  respecting  even  the  miserable  forms 
of  pirate  law  in  your  infernal  zeal  for  wickedness — what 
wretch  is  there,  however  black,  that  does  not  whiten  into  vir 
tue  beside  you  !  Lafitte  himself  sees  in  you  a  depth  of  mean 
vice  to  which  his  self-respect  will  not  permit  him  to  descend. 
God  forgive  me,  that  I  lowered  myself  to  prune  my  speech, 
and  curb  my  heart,  and  strain  my  conscience,  in  the  effort 
to  win  and  bribe  you  from  your  ghastly  crime  against  man 
kind.  Go  on  with  it  now.  Blacken  down  into  your  pit  of 
iniquity.  Wrench  from  the  world  of  living  men  to  which 
he  yet  clings,  the  poor  victim  of  your  accursed  avarice,  and 
send  him  back  as  you  and  your  muck-rake  tribe  sent  Sims, 
to  shriek  his  life  away  under  the  bloody  scourge.  So  live 
your  life,  and  gorging  on  your  miserable  gains  till  you  drop 
into  your  grave,  may  you  never  know  the  fate  it  is  to  feel 
the  curses  of  the  poor  !" 

Gazing  aghast,  with  glassy  eyes,  like  one  fascinated,  into 
the  white  and  terrible  countenance  of  Harrington,  with  a 
horrible,  blind  look  on  his  own  visage,  Atkins  sat  petrified 
under  the  low,  magnetic  voice  in  which,  like  wind  and  rain 


464  HAKKINGTON. 

and  fire  and  hail,  these  words  burst  upon  him.  A  moment, 
and  Harrington  had  gone  ;  and  rising  to  his  feet,  and  shaking 
all  over  as  in  an  ague  fit,  with  that  horrible  blind  look  upon 
his  furious  face,  and  a  mad-dog  slaver  gathering  on  his  loose 
and  livid  lips,  his  sick-man's  voice  strainecf  and  gasped  into 
speech,  such  as  might  unnaturally  tear  its  way  in  agonizing 
rage  from  the  throat  of  one  organically  dumb. 

"  B-y  G-a-ud,  I'd  sa-end  him  ba-eck,"  he  drawled  agasp, 
"  e-ff  I-i  ha-ed  t-a  be  sa-ent  t-a  ha-ell  1" 

I  would  send  him  back  if  I  had  to  be  sent  to  hell.  With 
these  words,  which  sounded  as  if  they  were  torn  from  him,  as 
the  fabled  mandrake  was  said  to  be  torn  from  the  earth,  with 
low  shrieks  and  dripping  blood  ;  and  which  seemed  to  cling  as 
they  were  wrenched  away,  as  the  demon  vegetable  was  said  to 
cling  when  dragged  from  the  soil,  he  tottered  backward,  and 
fell  with  a  heavy  slump  into  his  chair.  There  he  sat  gasping, 
with  his  face  turned  to  the  wall. 

Driscoll  had  slunk  away  into  the  outer  office  as  Har 
rington  left  the  counting-room,  and  the  young  man  passed 
down  into  the  street  without  seeing  him,  and  crossed  to  where 
Wentworth  was  standing.  The  young  artist  gazed  with  a 
shocked  expression  into,  his  colorless  face  as  he  approached 
him. 

"Heavens!  Harrington,  how  white  you  are  P  he  mur 
mured. 

"  I  have  failed,  Richard,"  returned  Harrington  in  a  deep 
and  quiet  voice.  "  He  has  no  heart,  no  reason  even.  Trade 
has  eaten  the  one  and  the  other  out  of  him.  I  made  my  plea 
as  well  as  I  could.  I  appealed  to  his  mean  self-interest,  so 
that  even  he  felt  the  force  of  my  appeal,  and  wavered.  But 
he  refused  me,  and  I  flung  upon  him  the  bitterest  words  that 
ever  passed  my  lips,  and  left  him." 

Wentworth  looked  in  silence  on  the  marble  countenance, 
white  in  the  shadow  of  the  slouched  hat,  with  the  vertical  sun 
light  just  touching  the  beard  below. 

"  I  am  glad,  Harrington,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  that  you 
flung  bitter  words  upon  him." 

"No,"  replied  Harrington,  mournfully,  "  do  not  be  glad, 


HAEEINGTON.  465 

for  it  cannot  gladden  me.  Yet  I  do  not  regret  what  I  said  to 
him,  nor  do  I  think  it  were  better  unsaid.  Let  him  pass.  He 
lies,  the  saddest  wreck  I  know,  stranded  on  the  shores  of  my 
pity.  Mai-organized,  miseducated,  the  imperfect  infant  taken 
from  his  cradle,  and  every  imperfection  developed  by  the  hap 
hazard  social  culture,  and  all  else  undeveloped  ;  you  have  him 
at  last,  what  he  is — at  once  the  product  and  the  victim  of  a 
half-barbarous  state  of  society.  *  Pity  him.  He  might  have 
been  better  had  he  lived  in  a  better  day  and  among  better  men." 

"Well,  no  doubt,"  musingly  replied  Wentworth.  "Like 
Dr.  Johnson's  Scotchmen — caught  young,  something  might 
have  been  made  of  him.  In  the  mean  time,  blast  his  eyes  1" 

They  wandered  on  a  few  steps  together.  Suddenly  Harring 
ton  stood  still. 

"  There's  no  use  in  the  Captain  watching  the  Soliman,"  he 
said.  "  The  man  is  secreted  somewhere,  and  will  probably  not 
be  taken  on  board  till  the  vessel  is  ready  to  sail.  Besides,  it 
may  awaken  suspicion  if  anybody  should  happen  to  know  El- 
dad's  connection  with  me,  and  see  him  hanging  about  the  brig. 
Let's  go  down  to  him." 

They  turned  and  went  down  the  wharf. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  boarding  the  Soliman  again  ?"  asked 
Wentworth. 

"  Better  not,"  Harrington  returned.  "  Antony  is  not  there. 
It  would  only  put  them  on  their  guard.  The  sole  chance  now 
is  the  writ  of  habeas  corpus." 

"  And  how  about  Mrs.  Eastman  ?"  said  Wentworth. 

"  We  must  disregard  her,"  Harrington  replied.  "  She  will 
thank  us  by  and  by  for  doing  so,  especially  if  we  succeed  in 
saving  poor  Antony.  The  Soliman  does  not  sail  till  Tuesday 
night,  so  there  is  plenty  of  time.  We  will  return  presently, 
see  Muriel,  and  then  I  will  at  once  procure  the  writ.  If  I  fail 
with  it,  the  last  thing  is  to  search  the  Soliman  as  she  is  on  the 
point  of  leaving  the  wharf,  opposition  or  no  opposition.'7 

"  Good,"  exclaimed  Wentworth,  with  a  proud  thrill. 

They  went  on  in  silence,  and  presently  reached  the  Soli 
man.  The  stevedores  were  busy  lading  her,  and  all  was  acti 
vity  on  board  and  on  the  wharf.  Looking  about,  Harrington 

20* 


406  HARRINGTON. 

presently  caught  sight  of  Captain  Fisher  on  the  opposite  pave 
ment,  and  at  once  went  over  to  him.  The  two  joined  Went- 
wortb  in  a  couple  of  minutes,  and  they  all  went  up  the  wharf 
together. 

"Now,  Captain,"  said  Harrington,  as  they  walked  on,  "I 
am  going  on  to  Temple  street,  and  I  will  be  at  your  house 
soon.  Then  you  and  I  will  go  together  for  the  writ — so  -wait 
for  me." 

"  Ail  right,  John,"  returned  the  Captain,  who  had  been  pre 
viously  told  by  Harrington  that  Mrs.  Eastman  was  to  be  dis 
regarded. 

Half  way  up,  the  Captain  stopped  and  fixed  an  admiring 
gaze  on  a  pretty  little  sail-boat,  sloop-rigged,  which  lay  along 
side,  and  which  belonged  to  him. 

"  Pooty,  aint  she  ?"  he  remarked,  ogling  his  property. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  returned  Harrington,  "  we've  had  many  a 
pleasant  sail  in  her  in  the  old  days." 

He  sighed  vaguely,  and  they  went  on,  up  the  busy  wharf, 
and  into  the  noise  and  bustle  of  State  street.  It  was  the 
great  mercantile  street  of  the  city,  the  old  street  of  solemn 
memories,  the  proud  street  of  Sam  Adams  and  Paul  Revere, 
the  brave  street  of  the  Boston  Massacre,  the  dark  street  of 
the  rendition  of  Sims.  Over  those  stones  once  wet  with  the 
sacramental  blood  of  Attucks,  under  the  solemn  eye  of  the 
morning  star,  the  child  of  his  race,  surrounded  by  sabres,  had 
gone  to  the  vessel  a  Boston  merchant  volunteered  to  take  him 
to  his  murder.  Side  by  side,  amidst  the  weeds  and  rubble  of 
traffic,  burst  the  black  slaver  flower  and  bloomed  the  bright 
historic  rose. 

The  merchants  were  thick  on  'Change  as  the  three  com 
panions  came  up  the  street,  and  there  was  much  lifting  of  hats 
and  fluttering  and  swarming,  which  for  a  moment  they  could 
not  account  for.  But  presently,  as  they  entered  the  crowd, 
they  met  a  figure  which  explained  that  decorous  commotion, 
and  involuntarily  made  them  start  and  for  a  second  pause.  It 
was  Webster.  Not,  alas  !  the  dark  Hyperion,  splendid  in 
statued  majesty,  of  a  younger  day,  when  those  stern  lips 
thundered  the  speech  of  freemen  ;  but  him  grown  old,  his 


HAKEINGTON.  467 

leonine  and.  massive  features  austere  and  sullen-grim,  fire- 
scarred  in  swarthy  grain  with  base  ambition  and  battered  by 
the  storms  of  state,  yet  kingly  still  in  ruin,  and  with  some 
relic  of  their  former  sombre  beauty.  He  lifted  his  hat  to  a 
gentleman  as  they  came  up,  and  for  an  instant  they  gazed 
upon  the  rugged  and  malignant  grandeur  of  that  imposing 
countenance,  with  its  vast  brow  and  iron  majesty  of  mouth, 
and  ics  cavernous  and  torrid  eyes.  A  moment,  and  they 
had  gone  by.  Wentworth  looked  awed,  the  Captain's  face 
was  rigid  and  atwist,  and  Harrington  was  blind  with  tears. 

"  To  meet  him  at  such  an  hour  as  this  I"  he  gasped.  "  He 
who  has  done  it  all !  He  with  the  seventh  of  March  upon  his 
face,  and  you  and  I  and  all  of  us  with  its  shadow  on  our  lives. 
One  speech  for  freedom  then,  and  the  cloud  of  this  anguish  and 
dishonor  would  have  passed  away.  That  speech,  half-written 
in  his  desk,  never  spoken,  but  in  its  stead  the  speech  for 
slavery,  which  has  made  kidnapping  a  law.  And  he,  fallen 
forever,  standing  there  amidst  those  muck-rake  rogues,  fallen 
from  all  he  was,  fallen  from  all  he  might  have  been,  sunk  to 
herd  among  the  thieves  of  men  1  Oh,  wreck  of  wrecks — grief 
of  griefs — ashes  and  dust  and  ruin  !" 

Touched  by  the  solemn  passion  of  his  sorrow,  they  did  not 
speak,  but  went  on  in  brooding  silence,  regardless  of  the  pass 
ing  crowds  around  them.  In  a  few  minutes  they  reached  the 
head  of  State  street,  where  the  Captain  silently  nodded  and 
left  them,  and  turning  in  the  opposite  direction,  they  went  on 
to  Temple  street. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

• 

HERALD  SHADOWS. 


IT  was  about  one  o'clock  when  they  arrived.  After  a  hasty 
dinner,  Muriel  withdrew  to  argue  matters  with  her  mother, 
while  Harrington  went  into  the  library,  and  Wentworth.  who 


468  HARRINGTON. 

was  suffering  from  the  heat,  started  for  home  to,  change  his 
clothes,  promising  to  meet  his  friend  soon  at  the  house  in 
Chambers  street. 

The  conference  with  Mrs.  Eastman  lasted  nearly  an  hour, 
failed  of  result  of  course,  and  without  telling  her  mother  of 
her  purpose,  Muriel  went  into  the  library,  and  gave  her  de 
cision  in  favor  of  instant  action. 

Harrington  immediately  put  his  revolver  in  his  pocket,  and 
took,  in  case  of  need,  a  hundred  dollars  in  bills,  which  Muriel,  with 
her  usual  foresight,  had  drawn  from  the  bank  that  morning. 
Then  receiving  her  fervent  hopes  for  his  success,  he  folded  her 
in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  and  sallied  forth  upon  his  mission. 

He  was  resolute  and  calm,  yet  nervously  alive  with  incerti 
tudes  and  apprehensions,  which  fled  like  strange  shadows 
across  his  burning  brain.  The  day  was  still  brilliant -and  sul 
try,  but  in  the  stainless  blue  of  the  morning  masses  of  bright 
wild  clouds  had  gathered,  and  lay  fantastically  changing  from 
shape  to  shape  in  densely  huddled  concourse.  He  watched 
them  as  he  strode  along,  finding  in  their  tottering  transforma 
tions  and  flaring  brightness,  as  in  the  mutable  shapes  they 
assumed,  some  weird  expression  of  his  own  mood.  Here  they 
were  uuclirnbable  alps  of  cloudy  snow,  upreared  in  a  glittering 
mass  of  mountainous  giddiness,  and  toppling  from  their  bases. 
There  they  stretched  in  a  carded  drift  of  fierce  white  fire, 
smouldering  in  the  resplendent  blue,  and  consumed  by  its  own 
intensity.  In  one  place  they  had  heaped  into  the  form  of  a 
defying  giant,  impotently  melting  away  in  fantastic  dissolution. 
In  another  they  were  a  long  cohort  of  crouching  lions  looking 
out  of  their  manes.  Below  the  zenith,  before  him,  a  solitary 
cloud  shaped  itself  into  a  vapory  hydra  ;  beyond,  another 
wore  the  semblance  of  some  mongrel  dragon  of  the  air  ;  and 
all  were  sphinxine,  monstrous,  dazzling,  wonderful — a  phantas 
magoric  rack  of  intervolved  chimeras. 

With  such  a  pageant  bright  and  wild  above  his  head,  and 
with  a  feeling  corresponsive  to  it  all  within  his  mind,  he 
strode  on  through  the  quiet  streets  of  the  neighborhood,  and 
arrived  at  his  house  in  Chambers  street.  For  some  reason  or 
other,  the  Captain  had  not  yet  arrived,  and,  expecting  him  pre- 


HARRINGTON.  469 

sently,  after  a  minute's  kindly  chat  with  Hannah  and  Sophy, 
he  went  into  his  own  apartment. 

The  afternoon  sun  lay  bright  and  cheerful  within  the  room 
where  he  had  spent  so  many  sweet  and  studious  hours,  but  the 
first  thing  he  saw  on  entering,  brought  night  and  winter  on 
his  heart.  Below  the  empty  pedestal,  the  bust  of  the  beloved 
Verulam  lay  shattered  to  fragments  on  the  floor.  His  head 
sunk  upon  his  breast,  and  he  stood  sadly  gazing  upon  the  ruin. 
He  did  not  grieve  for  the  loss  of  the  treasured  statue  ;  he  did 
not  even  remember  to  think  how  the  accident  could  have  oc 
curred  ;  all  considerations  were  lost  in  the  feeling  of  mournful 
significance  which  swept  over  his  burning  brain,  as  he  brooded 
on  the  broken  image  of  the  majestic  Lord  of  Civilization. 

A  few  moments  he  gazed  upon  the  wreck  with  a  face  of 
marble;  then,  suddenly,  his  features  became  convulsed,  and 
his  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"It  is  well,  it  is  well  1"  he  cried,  in  a  transport  of  passionate 
sorrow.  "  Oh  image,  why  should  you  stand  there  when  the 
shamed  land  has  lost  her  breed  of  noble  blood,  and  civilization 
sleeps,  and  tyranny  darkens  back  upon  the  world  I  Well 
may  you  lie  shattered,  for  all  that  is  human  and  holy  is  shat 
tered  too.  Why  should  I  keep  you  in  this  base  city,  where 
all  that  is  noble  rests  in  the  grave,  or  lives  a  dying  life  in  the 
forlorn  grapple  with  hell  !  Fade,  fade,  large  memories  of 
saints  and  martyrs — drop,  statues  of  heroes — melt,  phantoms 
of  old  honor  from  the  pictured  wall — away,  and  yield  your 
places  to  the  forms  of  clowns  and  knaves  I  Come,  yon 
artists,"  he  raved,  in  passionate  bitterness — "  come,  you  dilet 
tante  bastards — come,  you  anatomies,  whom  the  ghost  of 
Angelo  mocks  and  scorns — here  is  work  for  you.  God  !  the 
serpentry  and  maggotry  of  Power  are  all  before  you  !  Choose 
from  them — choose  from  them — mould  us  statues  of  slavers, 
paint  us  pictures  of  kidnappers,  to  fill  the  vacant  places  ! 
Down  with  the  just  and  great — up  with  the  small  and  vile  !" 

Quivering  with  the  tempest  of  his  agony,  he  tottered  away, 
and  flinging  himself  into  his  chair,  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands. 

A  few  minutes  trailed  by  in  deep  stillness.     Gradually  he 


470  HARRINGTON. 

became  calm,  and  his  bands  dropped  from  his  white  and  sor 
rowful  features. 

"  I  waste  my  heart  in  grief,"  he  mournfully  murmured. 
"  It  will  pass,  it  will  pass.  Oh,  winter  of  Slavery  you  will 
pass,  and  the  spring-time  of  Freedom  will  emerge.  It  is  but 
a  season — only  a  season.  Patience,  patience,  patience." 

He  sat  for  a  little  while,  then  rose,  gathered  up  and  laid 
out  of  sight  the  fragments  of  the  statue,  bore  the  pedestal  up 
stairs,  and  returning  resumed  his  chair. 

The  minutes  were  wearing  on  in  deep  silence  when  a  low 
knock  came  to  the  door. 

"  Enter,"  cried  Harrington,  looking  up  from  his  mournful 
musing. 

The  door  opened  and  revealed  the  grotesque  and  sloven 
figure  of  Bagasse.  He  had  on  an  old  swallow-tailed  coat,  and 
wore  his  usual  dingy  cap,  with  the  visor  turned  down,  under 
which  his  swarthy,  upturned  face,  with  the  mustachioed,  lion 
mouth  open  in  a  curious  smile,  and  the  nose  adorned  with  the 
horn-rimmed  goggles,  pointed  with  suave  inquiry  at  Harring 
ton,  while  the  hand  performed  a  military  salute. 

"  Why,  Bagasse  1"  cried  Harrington,  smiling,  and  rising 
from  his  chair  to  cross  over  and  shake  hands — "  how  are  you  ? 
Come  in.  I'm  glad  to  see  you." 

"  Ah,  Missr  Harrington,"  returned  the  old  soldier,  entering 
and  bowing  low  with  a  quick  motion,  over  the  hand  he  grasped 
in  his,  "  I  am  vair  glad  to  see  you.  I  haf  not  see  you  for  so 
long:  Zen  I  fancee  you  are  seek,  and  I  call  zoo  be  vair  sure 
zat  it  is  not  zat  keep  you  from  ze  acadarnee.  How  is  you 
belt  ?  Br-r-r  !  Sacrebhu !  but  you  haf  been  seek,  eh  ?"  he 
cried,  with  a  sudden  commiseration,  expressed  by  a  shrug  of 
his  shoulders,  a  lift  of  his  eyebrows,  and  a  startled  grimace  of 
his  features,  as  he  noticed  the  whiteness  of  Harrington's  coun 
tenance.  "  Mon  Dieu !  you  is  vair  pale  wis  you  eye  circle  wis 
ze  dark  color  !  0  my  fren'  Missr  Harrington,  was  is  ze 
mattair  wis  you  ?" 

A  little  moisture  gathered  in  Harrington's  eyes  at  the 
pathetic  anxiety  of  the  old  man's  look  and  voice,  but  he  smiled 
cheerfully,  and  shook  his  head. 


HARRINGTON.  471 

"  No,  Bagasse,"  he  replied,  "  I  am  not  sick.  I  am  as  well 
as  I  have  ever  been.  Come,  take  a  seat." 

Bagasse  removed  his  cap,  and  sitting  on  the  sofa,  kept  his 
upturned  visage  pointed  in  dubious  inquiry  at  Harrington,  who 
had  resumed  his  chair. 

"  You  know  I  have  been  married,"  said  Harrington  smil 
ingly. 

"  Marry  !  No  !  Man  Dieu,  no  !  I  haf  not  hear  zat  !" 
exclaimed  Bagasse,  with  a  start,  and  his  bright  eye  glowing 
from  a  flushed  visage. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Harrington.  "  To  that  beautiful  rich  lady 
Mr.  Witherlee  told  you  of." 

Bagasse  turned  the  color  of  heated  iron,  partly  with  joy  at 
this  intelligence,  partly  with  wonder  at  Harrington's  know 
ledge  of  what  had  passed  between  himself  and  Witherlee. 

"  By  dam  !"  he  exclaimed  suddenly,  "  I  am  so  glad  I  haf 
ze  desire  zoo  dance  like  ze  vair  devail  !  But  how  you  know 
what  zat  pup  Witterly — ex-cuse  me,  Missr  Harrington,  but 
zat  is  vair  bad  young  man — ah,  vair  bad  ! — how  you  know 
what  he  say  zoo  me  ?" 

"  No  matter,  Bagasse,"  returned  Harrington,  smiling,  "  we 
won't  talk  of  that.  But  my  wife  heard  of  what  you  said 
to  him — you  remember  ? — what  you  said  you  would  tell  me  if 
you  were  her — and  she  said  that  to  me.  Yes,  she  did." 

Bagasse,  with  his  grotesque  ferruginous  face  all  aglow  with 
a  dozen  emotions,  sprang  up  with  a  stamp  which  shook  the 
room,  dropped  into  his  seat  again,  and  slapped  his  heart  with 
his  hand. 

"  Hah  !"  he  hoarsely  cried,  "  it  is  superb  !  By  dam  !  I 
sail  fly.  My  heart  is  too  big  for  his  box.  And  zat  beauti- 
fool,  rich,  vair,  fine  ladee  say  zat  ?  Sublime  !  She  is  great, 
she  is  grand,  she  is  more  zan  ze  great  Empress  Josephine  of 
ze  great  Nap-oleon.  Ah,  Hypolite  Bagasse  my  Men',  you 
haf  ze  biggest  compliment  I  sail  evair  hear  !" 

"  You  must  see  my  wife,  Bagasse,"  continued  Harrington. 
"  She  feels  very  grateful  to  you,  first  for  defending  me  from 
poor  Witherlee's  talk  " 

"  Sacre  .'"  growled  Bagasse,  interrupting,  "  I  catch  zat  pup 


472  HAKRINGTOtf. 

Witterly  in  my  acadamee  once  more,  and  I  break  him  in  two 
pieces  ovair  my  knee  !" 

"No,"  said  Harrington,  gently,  "  for  my  sake,  don't  touch 
him.  He  has  been  punished  enough  already.  Say  that  you 
won't  touch  him,  Bagasse." 

"  Missr  Harrington,  I  do  evairysing  you  want,"  replied  the 
pacified  fencing-master.  "  You  say  let  Witterly  off,  I  let  him 
off.  I  treat  him  wis  civilitee." 

"  That's  right,"  returned  Harrington;  "do.  But  as  I  was 
saying,  my  wife  feels  especially  grateful  to  you  for  having 
given  her  the  charming  idea  of  making  that  speech  to  me,  and 
she  wants  to  see  you,  and  know  you,  and  thank  you  herself. 
So  the  first  opportunity  I  get,  I  am  going  to  take  you  to  her 
house." 

Bagasse  turned  swarthy-red  at  this,  and  looked  embar 
rassed. 

"Pardon  me,  Missr  Harrington — ex-cuse  me,  sir,  please," 
he  said,  with  suave  shamefacedness,  bowing  low  as  he  sat. 
"  But  it  is  too  mush  honor — vair  many  too  mush.  You  beau- 
tifool,  vair,  fine,  ladee  wife,  she  is  so  high,  she  is  so  distingue, 
she  is  ze  count-ess,  ze  duch-ess,  ze  queen.  She  is  so  far  up  like 
ze  beautifool  sun.  I  am  so  low  down  like  ze  paving-stone  ze 
sun  shine  on.  You  zink  now  !  I  am  ze  poor  eld  fencing- 
mastair — ze  man  zat  eat  ze  garleek  and  drink  ze  brandee- 
bottel — ze  ugly  old  devail  Bagasse,  so  low  down.  Br-r-r-r  !  It 
is  not  propair  zat  I  make  ze  viseet  zoo  ze  vair,  fine,  beautifool 
rich  ladee-wife — I,  zee  poor  way  low  down  child  of  ze  people. 
Sacrebleu,  no  !" 

"  Oh,  Bagasse,  Bagasse,"  said  Harrington,  in  a  tone  of  good 
natured  chiding,  "  fie  upon  you  to  talk  in  that  way  !  Sup 
pose  my  wife  is  the  sun,  as  you  say.  Well,  the  sun  is  a  demo 
crat.  The  sun  shines  as  sweetly  on  you  as  on  the  emperor. 
Now  my  wife  is  like  the  sun  in  that  particular  at  least.  Ah, 
Bagasse,  she,  too,  is  a  child  of  the  people,  and  she  will  be  proud 
to  know  a  man  who  could  make  the  manly  speech  you  made  ! 
She  is  not  a  lady  who  respects  coats  and  bank-stock,  but  heart, 
honor,  manhood.  Come,  now,  you  fancy  her  a  bit  of  a  Marie 
Antoinette.  Not  at  all,  Bagasse.  Think  of  that  dear  child 


HAERINGTON.  473 

of  the  people  whom  Frenchmen  love — Josephine.  That  is  a 
better  image  of  her.  Don't  say  a  word — you  shall  visit  her, 
and  then  you'll  see  how  much  at  home  she'll  make  you  feel." 

All  which  Harrington  said  in  French  that  Bagasse  might 
perfectly  understand  him.  The  old  man  sat,  with  a  touched 
face,  looking  at  the  floor  for  some  time  after  the  young  scholar 
had  ceased  to  speak.  Looking  up,  at  length,  with  an  unsteady 
eye,  he  saw  that  the  sad,  introverted  expression  had  returned 
to  the  pallid  features  before  him.  In  fact,  Harrington's 
thoughts  had  dropped  away  to  the  trouble  on  his  mind,  and  he 
was  wondering  why  the  Captain  did  not  come. 

"  Missr  Harrington,"  said  Bagasse,  in  a  voice,  a  little  lower 
and  hoarser  than  usual,  "  you  make  me  vair  proud — you  do 
me  vair  mush  honor.  But  ah,  my  joay  haf  mush  melancolee 
wis  him,  for  you  look  so  pale,  so  bad.  Ex-cuse  me,  Missr 
Harrington — but  was  is  ze  mattair  wis  you  ?  Why,  you  look 
so  white,  so  sorrowfool  ?  Ah,  tell  you  old  Bagasse  zat  he  may 
say  ze  leetel  word  wis  comfort  in  him  !  You  marry  ze  beauti- 
fool,  dear  ladee  wife — mon  Dieu  I  zat  sail  make  you  so  happy 
zan  evairybody.  Why  zen  you  haf  zat  face  ?  Zat  is  not  ze 
face  for  ze  new  husband — sacrebleu,  no  !  Now  why  is  zat  ?" 

Harrington  paused  a  moment  before  replying,  struggling  to 
repress  the  agitation  he  felt  not  only  at  the  rude  tenderness  of 
the  old  Frenchman's  words  and  manner,  but  at  the  aching  sense 
it  brought  him  of  the  grief  that  had  clouded  his  sweet  and  per 
fect  happiness. 

"  Don't  ask  me,  Bagasse,"  he  faltered.  "  Kind  old  friend,  I 
wish  I  could  tell  you,  but  there  are  reasons  " 

A  low  knock  at  the  door  made  him  break  off  in  the  midst 
of  his  sentence. 

"  No,  don't  go,"  he  said  to  the  fencing-master,  who  had 
moved  to  rise.  "  Come  in,"  he  cried. 

The  door  opened  slowly,  and  to  the  astonishment  of  Har 
rington,  Driscoll  the  stevedore  entered.  Harrington  smiled 
vaguely,  and  bent  his  head  with  an  absent  and  wondering  air 
in  reply  to  the  abashed  and  awkward  bow  the  Irishman  made 
as  he  came  in. 

"Why,  Mr.  Driscoll,"  he  said,  slowly,  "  I  didn't  expect  to 


474  HARRINGTON. 

see  you,  though  I'm  glad  you  came.  Take  a  chair.  How  are 
you  r 

"Party  well,  thank  ye  kindly,  Mr.  Harrington?'  replied 
Driscoll,  taking  off  his  old  straw  hat,  and  wiping  his  fore 
head  with  his  coat  sleeve,  without  looking  at  the  young 
man. 

Harrington,  wondering  at  his  curious  air  of  awkward  bash- 
fulness,  and  beginning  to  feel  a  rising  perturbation,  as  he 
remembered  that  he  had  seen  the  man  in  Atkins'  office  not 
long  before,  blankly  stared  at  him.  He  was  a  strong,  thick-set, 
stooping  man,  dressed  in  coarse  canvas  trowsers,  all  stained 
with  pitch  and  dirt ;  a  soiled  red  flannel  shirt  ;  and  a  short 
frowsy  old  coat  with  large  horn  buttons.  He  had  what  is 
commonly  called  a  thoroughly  Irish  face — which  means  not  the 
Irish  face  of  Jeremy  Taylor  or  Edmund  Burke,  but  the  face  of 
an  Irish  peasant  after  despotism,  political,  social,  and  religious, 
has  wrought  on  him  and  his  ancestry  for  a  certain  period,  giving 
him  some  abjectness,  some  lawlessness,  some  clownishness,  some 
stupidity,  some  insensibility,  an  aspect  of  hard  work  and  poor  fare 
and  low  condition,  and  degrading  his  forehead,  clouding  his  eye, 
lowering  his  nose,  making  his  lips  loose,  his  gums  prominent, 
his  cheeks  scrawny,  his  throat  scraggy,  and  barbarizing  the 
manhood  of  him  generally.  Such,  with  the  addition  of  tan 
and  freckles  got  from  labor  in  the  sun,  and  also  the  grime  and 
sweat  of  that  labor,  was  the  visage  of  Driscoll.  The  only  other 
thing  Harrington  noticed  about  him  was  that  he  kept  his  left 
hand '  tightly  clenched  while  he  wiped  his  face  with  the  rough 
sleeve  of  his  right  arm. 

"Well,"  continued  Harrington,  after  a  pause,  "how  goes 
it,  Mr.  Driscoll  ?  How  is  your  wife  ?  And  the  children  ? 
And  how  is  the  broken  leg  ?  Won't  you  sit  down  ?" 

"They're  all  purty  well,  sur,  thank  ye  kindly,"  returned 
Driscoll,  ducking  his  head  continuously  as  he  spoke,  and  moving 
up  to  the  table.  "  And  the  leg's  sthrong  as  a  post,  glory  be 
to  God,  sur.  Sorra  the  word  o'lie  in  it,  but  it's  yerself  that 
it's  owin'  to,  and  divil  a  leg  I'd  have  to  stand  on  this  minit 
widout  you,  Mr.  Harrington." 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Harrington,  smiling  ;  "  I'm  glad  you're 


HARRINGTON.  475 

over  that  trouble.  But  you  came  up  to  tell  me  something,  I 
suppose.  Did — did  Mr.  Atkins  send  you  ?" 

"  Deed  he  did  not,%sur,"  replied  Driscoll.  "  I  kern  up  to 
make  bowld  to  ask  ye  something,  Mr.  Harrington,  if  ye 
wouldn't  think  it  an  offince,  sur,"  he  added,  with  a  furtive 
sidelook  at  Bagasse,  who  sat  with  an  upturned  face  of  curious 
interrogation  levelled  at  him. 

"  Certainly  not,"  replied  Harrington.  "No  offence  at  all. 
Ask  away.  Never  mind  my  friend,  there." 

"  Bad  scran  to  me  if  I  wor  to  mind  a  frind  o'  yours,  sur," 
returned  Driscoll,  coming  close  up  to  the  edge  of  the  table,  and 
looking  uneasily  at  Harrington.  "  It's  a  quistion  I'll  make 
bowld  to  ask  ye,  sur." 

11  Well,  ask  on,"  said  Harrington,  blankly  gazing  at  him, 
with  a  mounting  color,  and  his  heart  beating  painfully  with  a 
blind  clairvoyant  sense  of  what  was  coming. 

"  Are  ye,"  confidentially  asked  the  stevedore,  with  consider 
able  burr  on  the  "  are  " — "  are  ye  opposed,  sur,  to  it's  behV 
done  ?" 

Harrington  started  so  violently,  and  turned  ^  so  pale,  that 
Bagasse  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  Driscoll's  face  grew  stupid 
with  surprise. 

"  To  what  being  done  ?"  gasped  Harrington.  "  Speak 
quick.  Tell  me  what  you  mean  ?" 

"  Are  ye  opposed,  sur,  to  ould  Atkins  sendiii'  off  the  durty 
negur  ?  That's  what  I  mane,"  said  Driscoll. 

"I  am!"  cried  Harrington,  with  a  lightning  look  at  Ba 
gasse,  and  a  wish  that  he  was  out  of  the  room. 

Driscoll  looked  at  the  table,  and  looking  at  it,  slowly  swung 
up  his  clenched  left  fist  like  one  pelting  a  pool,  and  hurled  a 
twenty  dollar  gold  piece  ringing  on  the  cloth. 

"  Then  I'm  dommed  if  I'll  do  it,"  he  exultingly  howled,  with 
a  thump  of  his  fist  on  the  money.  "Hurroo.  for  the  bridge 
that  carries  us  over,  and  it's  you  that  wor  the  bridge  of  goold 
to  me  and  the  ould  woman  and  the  childher  in  the  black  hour, 
Mr.  Harrington.  Ould  Atkins  and  his  money  to  the  divil,  and 
bad  scran  to  him  and  his  for  an  ould  robber,  for  I'm  dommed 
if  I'll  do  wan  thing  that  ye  are  opposed  to,  sur.  Arrah,  bad 


4:76  HAKBINGTON. 

look  to  him,  and  may  he  niver  know  glory,  for  the  black  thafe 
o'  the  world  that  he  is  ;  but  it's  yerself  that  dhressed  him  down 
thremindous  this  blissed  day,  Mr.  Harrington.  Troth,  but  it's 
the  good  blood  that's  in  the  Harringtons,  and  kings  and  impe- 
rors  they  wor  in  the  ould  country  wanst,  and  sorra  the  word  o' 
lie  in  it  1" 

With  which  highly  apocryphal  assertion,  Driscoll's  excited 
outburst  ceased,  and  he  fell  to  wiping  his  heated  face,  first 
with  one  coat-sleeve  and  then  with  the  other. 

Harrington  rose  from  his  seat,  white  as  death,  his  nostrils 
heaving  and  his  eyes  aflame. 

"  Bagasse,"  he  said,  "  will  you  be  kind  enough  to  leave 
me  " He  stopped,  touched  by  the  look  of  tender  sympa 
thy  on  the  grotesque  face  of  the  fencing-master.  "  No,"  he 
cried,  "  don't  go.  Stay  with  me.  You  shall  know  it — you 
shall  know  what  it  is  that  is  killing  me.  But  tell  me,"  he 
pursued,  speaking  in  French,  "  tell  me,  on  the  honor  of  a 
soldier,  that  you  will  never  breathe  one  word  of  this  to  any 
living  being,  for  it  is  a  secret  which  must  be  kept  close  as 
the  grave."  . 

Bagasse  struck  hands  with  him  with  passionate  and  martial 
energy. 

"  I  swear  it,"  he  hoarsely  cried  in  French.  "  Let  me  know 
it,  for  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  suffer,  and  if  I  can  help  you,  I 
will !" 

"  Good>  1"  exclaimed  Harrington.  "  Driscoll,  attend  to  me. 
Where  is  that  negro  ?" 

"  They've  got  him,  sur,  in  the  cuddy  of  a  boat  down  on 
Spectacle  Island,"  replied  the  stevedore,  frightened  into  con 
ciseness  by  the  stern  voice  and  flaming  eyes  of  Harrington. 

"Who  are  they  that  have  him?  Men  employed  by  At 
kins  ?" 

"  Yes,  sur.  Siven  o'  thim,  sur.  It's  me  that  wor  to  be 
eight." 

"  Seven  men  paid  by  Atkins.  Who  are  they  ?  Steve 
dores  ?" 

"  Stevedores  and  sailors,  sur.  Twinty  dollars  apiece  they 
get  for  it,  sur." 


HARRINGTON.  477 

"  What  are  they  doing  with  him  there  ?" 

"  Howlding  on  to  him,  sur,  till  the  Soliman  sails.  She's  to 
heave  to,  and  take  him  on  board,  sur." 

"  When  does  the  Soliman  sail  ?" 

"  To-morrow  morning  at  break  o'  day,  sur." 

"  To-morrow  morning  ?     No — you  mean  Tuesday  night." 

"  'Deed  I  don't,  sur.  She  sails  to-morrow  morning,  if  there's 
a  breath  o'  wind." 

Harrington  drew  his  breath.  Lucky  I  found  this  out,  he 
said  to  himself  ;  to-morrow  I  should  have  been  too  late. 

"  Driscoll,"  he  continued,  "  are  those  men  armed  ?" 

"  They've  got  their  knives,  sur." 

"  No  pistols  ?" 

"  Sorra  the  wan,  sur." 

"  Do  they  stay  in  the  boat  all  the  time  ?" 

"  'Deed  they  don't,  sur.  Wan  or  two  o'  thim  stays  in  her 
turn  and  turn  about,  and  the  rist  o'  thim  plays  cards  in  the 
little  room  o'  the  house  on  the  island." 

"The  house?  Oh,  it's  a  hotel.  Does  the  owner  of  the 
house  know  they  have  a  negro  in  the  boat  ?" 

"  'Deed  he  don't,  sur.  The  negur's  tied  hand  and  fut,  and 
kep'  in  the  cuddy." 

"  What  does  the  owner  of  the  house  think  those  men  are 
there  for  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  sur.  Captain  Bangham  paid  him  well  for 
the  room  they  have,  and  he  niver  comes  nigh  thim  at  all." 

"  How  long  were  you  there  ?" 

"  This  morning  early,  I  wint  down  with  thim,  sur." 

"  How  came  you  to  be  up  in  the  city  this  noon  ?" 

"  1  kem  up,  sur,  with  Captain  Bangham.  He  wint  down 
to  the  island  in  a  boat  of  his  own,  along  wid  us  this  morning 
early,  and  stayed  wid  us  a  while,  dhrinkin'  like  a  lish,  till  he 
got  purty  dhrunk.  So  I  kem  back  wid  him  to  help  him  man 
age  the  boat  lest  he'd  get  dhrowned,  sur." 

"  How  came  you  to  come  up  with  him,  and  not  a  sailor  ?" 

"  We  dhrew  lots  for  it,  sur,  and  I  was  the  wan." 

"  And  you  were  going  down  to  the  island  again  ?". 

"  Yis,  sur.     I  was  goin'  in  the  first  boat  that  wint  down  the 


478  HARRINGTON. 

harbor.  I  wint  in  to  ould  Atkins  to  take  the  pay,  for  the 
others  had  got  theirs,  and  there  wasn't  enough  in  his  pocket 
for  me  when  he  paid  thim,  so  he  tould  me  to  come  in  whin 
I  kem  up  from  the  island,  and  begorra,  I  tuk  him  at  his 
word." 

"  Did  Atkins  pay  those  men  himself?" 

"  Deed  he  did,  sur.  Early  in  the  mornin'  when  they  wint 
down,  he  was  there,  and  paid  thim." 

"  This  Captain  Bangham  is  the  captain  of  the  Soliman,  I 
suppose  ?" 

11  Yis,  sur." 

"  Where  does  the  boat  lie  that  has  the  negro  on  board." 

"  At  the  wharf  o'  the  island,  sur." 

"  This  room  in  which  the  men  stay — where  is  it  ?" 

"  It's  in  the  outbuilding,  sur.  A  little  room  nixt  to  the 
kitchen,  low  down,  wid  the  doore  openin'  on  the  ground,  an' 
wan  step  for  the  stairs,  sur." 

"  Good.  Now,  Driscoll,  you  are  not  going  to  help  these 
men  any  more  ?" 

11  I'm  dommed  if  I'll  do  it,  whin  you're  opposed  to  me  doin' 
it,  sur.  Troth,  I  heard  ivery  word  ye  said  to  the  ould  thafe, 
and  says  I  to  meself,  if  I  do  wan  thing  that  Mr.  Harrington's 
set  aginst,  and  he  the  gintleman  that  befrinded  me  and  mine 
in  the  black  throuble,  may  the  divil  fly  away  wid  me." 

"  Driscoll,  take  that  gold  piece  back  to  Mr.  Atkins,  and  tell 
him  you've  thought  better  of  it.  Don't  say  another  word  to 
him  but  that.  Have  no  quarrel  with  him.  Say  that,  put 
the  money  on  his  desk,  and  leave  his  office.  Do  you  under 
stand  ?" 

"  Yis,  sur.    I'll  do  it." 

"  Good.     You  shall  not  lose  by  it.     Take  this  from  me." 

Harrington  drew  from  his  pocket  the  money  he  had 
received  from  Muriel,  and  counted  him  out  twenty-five 
dollars. 

"  Here,  Driscoll,"  he  said,  holding  out  the  bills  to  him. 

"  Oh,  begorra,  Mr.  Harrington,  but  I'll  niver  take  it  from 
you.  Plaise  don't  offer  it  to  me." 

"  Driscoll,  I  insist  upon  your  taking  it.     You  shall." 


HARRINGTON.  479 

He  seized  the  stevedore's  hand,  and  put  the  money  into  it. 

"  There.  Don't  thank  me,  but  attend  to  what  I  say.  Dris- 
coll,  that  negro  is  a  poor  laboring  man  like  you.  He  has  as 
good  a  right  to  his  freedom  as  you  have.  When  you  joined 
those  men  to  keep  him  in  that  boat,  you  were  guilty  of  a  great 
sin.  Never  do  such  a  thing  again  !  You  say  you  are  grate 
ful  to  me.  Then  be  kind  to  negroes  for  my  sake.  Be  kind  to 
them  for  your  own  sake.  You  are  a  poor  man,  and  you  ought 
to  be  kind  to  the  poor." 

Driscoll  looked  abashed  and  touched.  Perhaps  the  words 
moved  him  less  than  the  solemn  and  gentle  voice  which  uttered 
them. 

"  Sorra  the  harm  I'll  ever  work  wan  o'  thim,  sir,"  he  mur 
mured.  "  Deed,  I  didn't  know  it  was  a  sin." 

"  And  now,  Driscoll,"  pursued  Harrington,  "  I  have  reasons 
for  wishing  this  matter  kept  secret,  and  I  want  you  to  swear 
to  me  that  you  will  never  speak  of  this  to  any  person  what 
ever.  Never  tell  Anybody  that  you  were  in  that  boat — that 
Mr.  Atkins  hired  you — or  that  you  came  here  and  told  me. 
Never  speak  of  this  at  all  in  any  way." 

"  I'll  swear  it,  sur.     Deed  I  will." 

Harrington  turned  to  his  shelves,  and  took  down  a  Douai 
Bible,  its  covers  blazoned  with  a  golden  cross. 

"Driscoll,"  said  he,  "you  are  a  Catholic.  Here  is  the 
Catholic  Bible.  It  is  opposed  to  slavery.  There  have  been 
great  men  of  your  church  who  hated  slavery.  The  Pope  him 
self  has  cursed  slavery.  See,  here  is  the  cross  of  your  church 
on  the  cover.  Take  this  book  in  your  hands,  and  swear  that 
you  will  never  speak  to  any  person,  man  or  woman,  of  what 
you  have  done,  of  what  passed  between  Mr.  Atkins  and  you, 
of  what  has  passed  between  us  here.  Swear  it." 

Driscoll  reverently  received  the  Bible  in  his  hands,  took  the 
oath,  and  kissed  the  cross. 

"  That  is  all,"  said  Harrington,  receiving  the  Bible,  and 
restoring  it  to  its  place.  "  I  am  very  grateful  to  you  for  having 
told  me  of  this,  Driscoll.  You  have  done  me  the  greatest  good 
that  any  man  could  do  me." 

Driscoll  stood  in  silence,  awed  and  wonder-stricken  at  what 


480  HARRINGTON. 

had  passed,  and  subdued  by  the  majestic  gentleness  of  Harring 
ton's  demeanor.  In  a  moment  he  took  the  gold  piece  from  the 
table,  and  moved  to  the  door. 

"  God  save   ye  kindly,  sur,"  he  faltered,  ducking  his  head. 

"  Good  bye,  Driscoll.     Shake  hands." 

He  awkwardly  took  the  frank  hand  Harrington  outstretched 
as  he  came  over  to  him,  felt  it  grasp  his  own  as  never  gentle 
man's  had  grasped  it  before,  and  with  a  wild  and  woful  enthu 
siasm  heaving  within  him,  and  repressed  by  shame  and  awe, 
he  turned  away,  and  stole  out  at  the  door  the  young  man 
opened  for  him. 

Harrington  closed  the  door,  and,  all  unmindful  of  Bagasse, 
turned  away  with  clasped  hands,  and  a  face  of  solemn 
ecstasy. 

"Oh,  bread  cast  upon  the  waters,"  he  murmured,  "is  it 
thus  I  find  you  after  many  days  ?  I  helped  him  in  his  trouble,, 
and  he  pays  me  back  with  life  I" 

His  head 'sunk  upon  his  breast,  and  he  .stood  with  closed 
eyes,  rapt  and  still,  his  heart  swelling  with  gratitude  and 
thanksgiving. 

Suddenly,  from  the  barrel-organ  in  the  street,  a  strain  of 
martial  music  arose  and  flowed  in  upon  the  dreaming  silence.  It 
was  the  thrilling  tonal  glory  of  the  Marseillaise.  The  thought 
of  his  heart  came  like  flame  to  the  broad-uostrilled  countenance 
of  Harrington,  and  he  stood  with  kindled  features  and  dilated 
form,  while  the  proud  and  mournful  music  swept  like  the 
march  of  an  army  around  him.  On  and  on  in  burning  mea 
sure,  rolled  the  sad  and  conquering  lilt  of  liberty,  and  darken 
ing  down  in  fire  and  tears,  voice  of  the  passion  of  mankind, 
voice  of  the  wrongs  and  woes  that  redden  earth  while  the 
good  cause  lies  bleeding,  the  weird  strain  arose  and  rang  in 
the  clear  cry  for  the  sword,  and  wailed  in  the  mournful  glory 
of  those  final  tones  whose  melody  is  like  a  hymn  for  the  dead 
who  die  for  Man. 

Harrington  rushed  from  the  room.  The  Frenchman,  left 
alone,  stood  with  a  dark  glow  on  his  iron  visage,  and  the  red 
light  of  battle  in  his  eye,  thinking  of  the  old  days  of  military 
ardor,  the  old  wars  in  which  he  had  stormed  on  Europe,  the 


HARRINGTON.  4:81 

old  Paris  folding  in  her  bosom  the  ashes  of  the  Emperor,  the 
old  France  he  himself  would  never  see  again. 

The  flush  of  memory  the  music  brought  him  was  pal 
ing  into  sadness,  when  Harrington  returned  from  the  street. 

"  I  have  paid  him,  and  sent  him  away,  Bagasse,"  said 
the  young  man.  "  After  that  air,  I  wanted  to  hear  no 
more.  Now  sit  down,  and  I  will  tell  you  the  meaning  of  all 
this." 

Bagasse  took  his  seat  on  the  sofa,  and  Harrington  sitting 
beside  him,  in  a  few  words  told  him  all. 

"  And  now,"  he  joyfully  said,  in  conclusion,  "  everything 
begins  to  lighten,  since  I  know  where  this  poor  Antony  is  to  be 
found." 

"  Ah,  Missr  Harrin'ton,"  returned  the  old  man,  smilingly 
regarding  him  over  an  upturned  chin,  "  zat  face  you  haf  is  now 
ze  face  of  ze  new  husband  !  Ze  dear  ladee  wife  will  lof  zat 
face  so  gay.  Missr  Harrin'ton,  you  are  ze  most  grand  zhentil- 
man  I  sail  evair  see.  You  feel  kind  for  ze  vair  old  devail 
himself.  You  get  white,  you  get  ze  dark  round  you  eye  for 
zat  neeger  man  so  mush  as  he  was  you  own  self.  Nobody,  not 
ze  white  man,  not  ze  neeger  man,  not  no  man  at  all,  feel  so 
bad  for  you  like  you  feel  for  evairy  ozzer  man.  Why  is  zat  ?" 

Harrington's  maxillary  muscles  wrinkled,  and  his  teeth 
flashed  in  an  amused  laugh,  while  his  face  grew  scarlet  at  this 
complimentary  recognition  of  the  human  kindness  that  was  so 
mighty  in  him. 

"  Bagasse,"  said  he,  "  don't  praise  me  for  having  the  feelings 
of  a  man.  If  you  could  have  seen  the  poor  fellow  when  I  found 
him  in  the  street,  and  if  you  could  have  heard  his  account  of 
the  life  he  had  been  living,  you  would  feel  as  badly  as  I  did. 
But  here's  Wentworth  and  the  Captain  at  last,"  he  added, 
catching  sight  of  them  from  the  window  near  him,  as  they  en 
tered  the  garden  gate. 

They  came  in  presently,  and  for  a  moment  there  was  a  con 
fusion  of  salutations.  Then  the  Captain,  having  been  introduced 
to  Bagasse,  turned  to  Harrington. 

"  John,"  said  he,  "  I'm  awful  exercised  about  keepin'  you 

waitm',  but " 

21 


482  HAKKINGTON. 

"Never  mind/'  interrupted  Harrington.  "I  shan't  try  to 
get  the  habeas  corpus  writ  now.  Let  me  tell  you  what's  hap 
pened." 

"  By  Jupiter  !"  cried  Wentworth,  reddening  at  the  sight 
of  Harrington's  kindled  face.  "Antony's  got  off!  Good! 
Hurrah  !" 

"  Hold  on.  Not  so  fast,  Richard,"  returned  Harrington. 
"  Antony's  not  off  yet,  but  he's  going  to  be.  Now  listen." 

And  in  a  few  words  he  gave  them  an  account  of  the  inter 
view  with  Driscoll. 

"  So  Antony's  in  the  cuddy  of  a  boat  at  Spectacle  Island," 
he  added,  concluding.  "  And  now,  see  here.  Thank  fortune 
Mrs.  Eastman's  feelings  can  be  spared,  Antony  saved,  and  yet 
the  whole  affair  be  kept  strictly  private.  I  shall  wait,  Captain, 
till  the  dead  of  night,  when  those  fellows  will  all  be  asleep, 
and  I  hope  drunk — all  except  the  one  in  the  boat — and  then  I 
shall  run  down  in  your  craft,  land,  and  capture  the  captured." 

"Bravo!"  shouted  Wentworth.  "By  Jove!  I  shall 
laugh  fit  to  kill  when  we  get  hold  of  Antony." 

"  We  ?"  said  Harrington,  jestingly.   "  Why,  are  you  going  ?" 

"  Am  I  going  !"  roared  Wentworth.  "  Of  course  I  am.  Do 
you  think  I'd  let  you  go  alone  ?" 

Captain  Fisher,  who  had  been  sitting  in  silence,  with  his 
winter  pippin  face  agrin,  burst  into  hearty  laughter. 

"  By  the  spoon  of  horn  !"  he  exclaimed,  "but  this  is  a  leetle 
the  richest  idee  -I  ever  heern  tell  on.  But,  John,  look  a-here. 
Siven  of  them  fellers,  you  know.  Sposin  you  find  them  in  the 
boat  all  together,  like  Brown's  cows,  when  he  had  but  one  ? 
What'll  you  do  then  ?" 

"It's  not  likely,"  replied  Harrington.  "Men  love  their 
ease  too  much  to  be  out  in  the  night  when  it's  not  necessary. 
For  my  own  part,  I  think  Atkins  has  managed  this  matter 
like  a  fool.  Two  men  would  have  answered  his  purpose  per 
fectly,  and  he  puts  eight  there.  I.  can't  imagine  what  he  was 
thinking  of." 

Mr.  Atkins  was  thinking  of  Harrington,  if  Harrington 
could  but  har  e  known  it.  The  moment  Mrs.  Eastman  had 
told  him  th<*l  Antony  had  beec  sheltered  in  her  house,  a  feel- 


HAEEINGTON.  483 

ing  had  come  to  him  that  the  young  scholar,  whose  dauntless 
temper  he  had  some  notion  of,  might  possibly  attempt  a  rescue, 
and  he  took  his  measures  accordingly.  This  accounted,  too. 
for  Antony  not  being  on  board  the  Soliman. 

"But  look  a-here,  John," pursued  the  Captain.  "Satan's 
niver  onready  to  play  ye  a  trick,  an'  there's  no  countin'  on 
what's  likely  with  him.  Now  sposin  you  find  them  siven  fellers 
in  the  boat  when  you  git  down  ?" 

"  In  that  case,"  replied  Harrington,  gravely,  "  there's  no 
thing  for  it  but  a  desperate  fight.  I  shall  tell  them  of  the 
illegality  of  their  proceeding,  and  try  to  frighten  them  into 
giving  up  Antony.  If  they  refuse,  I  shall  fall  on  them  like  a 
fury.  Here's  Bagasse  has  been  training  me  for  years,  and  I 
think  I  should  do  credit  to  his  training  even  with  seven  men. 

"  Missr  Harrin'ton,"  said  Bagasse,  with  a  grimace,  "  you 
do  me  one  favor.  No,  pardieu,  I  take  zat  favor.  Look.  I 
go  wis  you.  Zat  is  settle.  Zen  if  ze  seven  men  wish  zoo  fight, 
zey  sail  fight  wis  you  and  me,  and  zey  find  out,  by  dam,  zat  we 
is  fourteen  !" 

"  Bravo,  you  old  Gascon  !"  cried  Wentworth,  slapping  him 
on  the  shoulder.  "  Let  him  go,  Harrington.  Don't  refuse." 

"  But,  Bagasse,"  said  Harrington,  "  you  have  a  wife,  and  I 
can't  consent  that  you  should  put  your  life  in  danger  on 
my  affair." 

"  Chut  1  poo,  poo  1"  answered  the  fencing-master.  "  Ex-cuse 
me,  Missr  Harrin'ton,  but  zat  is  feedelstick  !  You  haf  ze 
beautifool,  dear  ladee  wife,  and  I  take  care  of  you  for  her. 
Good.  Zat  is  well.  Now  I  go  wis  you." 

"  Don't  deny  him,  Harrington,"  pleaded  Wentworth. 
"  Come,  let's  arrange  the  rest  of  this  matter.  Where  do  we 
start  from  ?" 

"  Long  Wharf,  at  about  twelve  o'clock, "  replied  Harrington. 
"  Whoever  gets  to  the  boat  first  will  wait  for  the  rest.  Then 
about  landing.  Faith,  it  won't  do  to  land  at  Long  Wharf,  if 
any  of  us  gets  hurt.  We  shall  have  the  night  police  asking 
questions  if  they  see  one  of  us  limp.  Besides,  the  less  seen 
of  Antony  the  better.  We  must  land  at  South  Boston, 
where  it's  lonely  as  a  desert." 


484:  HARRINGTON. 

"  And  walk  over  to  the  city  I"  asked  Wentworth,  with  a 
laugh. 

"  No,  we  must  have  a  carriage,"  replied  Harrington. 
"  Now  who's  going  to  drive  the  carriage  out  and  wait  there 
with  it  ?  I  can't,  for  I  must  go  in  the  boat." 

"  And  I  must  go  wis  you,"  said  Bagasse. 

"  So  must  I,"  added  Wentworth. 

"  It's  me  then,"  said  the  Captain,  getting  all  awry.  "  Now, 
that's  a  pity,  for  I  want  to  be  with  you.  And  sposin  there's 
a  fight.  Then  you're  one  able-bodied  man  the  less." 

"  See,"  put  in  Bagasse.  "  I  tell  you.  We  get  John  Todd 
for  to  drive.  You  pay  him  money.  Zen  he  go.  Zat  John 
Todd  lof  money." 

"  Bravo  !"  cried  Wentworth.  "  That's  an  idea.  I'll  give 
Johnns  ten  dollars  for  the  job." 

"  I  hardly  like  to  have  another  party  in  a  matter  so  pri 
vate,"  demurred  Harrington. 

"  But  he  needn't  know  anything  about  it,"  said  Wentworth. 
"  He  needn't  even  see  Antony.  When  we  land,  I'll  go  up  and 
get  the  carriage,  letting  him  stay  behind,  put  Antony  in,  drive 
up  again,  take  Johnny  on  the  box,  drive  in  town,  set  him 
down,  and  go  on  to  Temple  street." 

"  Well,"  said  Harrington,  "  that  may  do.  Now  who'll  get 
the  carriage  ?  We  want  a  close  carriage." 

"  I'll  get  it,"  returned  Wentworth.  "  I  know  a  man  who'll 
let  me  have  one.  I'll  attend  to  all  that,  and  to  engaging 
Johnny.  Where  shall  we  have  the  carriage  stand  ?  Say  Q 
street.  Good.  We'll  all  go  armed,  of  course." 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Harrington,  "  I  will  take  my  revolver." 

"  And  I  my  pistols,"  said  Wentworth. 

"  I  sail  carree  ze  good  cavalree  sabre  wis  my  pistol,"  said 
Bagasse. 

"  And  I'll  take  that  hickory  stick  of  mine  with  the  lead 
knob,  and  that'll  give  any  feller  a  headache  that  wants  one," 
said  the  Captain,  with  his  head  ominously  askew. 

"  Good,  everything's  settled,"  said  Harrington.  "  Now, 
gentlemen,  to-night  at  twelve.  We  shall  get  there  by  two  at 
the  latest,  if  there's  any  breeze  at  all,  and  probably  at  one. 


HARRINGTON.  485 

You'd  better  all  meet  here,  and  go  down  together.  I  will 
meet  you  at  the  boat." 

"  Agreed,"  said  Wentworth.  "  Now,  Bagasse,  you  and  I 
will  go  after  Johnny." 

"  And  I  home,"  said  Harrington.  "  I'll  meet  you  again  at 
twelve." 

He  lingered  a  few  moments  after  they  had  gone,  musing 
with  a  kindled  and  exulting  face,  and  then  with  a  sudden 
yearning  to  pour  out'  his  gladness  to  Muriel,  he  seized  his  hat 
and  left  the  room.  In  the  yard  he  happened  to  think  of  the 
dog,  and  he  went  for  a  moment  to  the  kennel.  The  animal 
was  lying  on  its  side,  apparently  asleep,  and  Harrington  was 
just  about  to  turn  away,  when  he  chanced  to  notice  that  its 
eyes  were  partly  open.  Surprised  a  little,  he  bent  down,  and 
laid  his  hand  on  the  animal.  It  did  not  move.  The  old  dog 
was  dead. 

He  arose,  and  stood  for  a  moment  with  a  vacant  and  reel 
ing  brain  ;  then  turned,  and  with  a  dazed  feeling,  went  into 
the  street  and  on  his  way.  The  clouds  were  still  bright  and 
wild  in  the  afternoon  sky,  and  tottering  fantastically  into  ever 
mutable  strange  shapes,  fierce,  dazzling,  sphinxine,  wonderful. 
He  gazed  at  them  for  a  little  while  as  he  strode  on,  until  op 
pressed  by  their  instability,  and  with  a  dark  sense  that  they 
were  like  an  untranslatable  hieroglyphic  of  something  that  had 
been,  or  was,  or  was  to  be,  and  that  could  not  be  defined,  he 
turned  his  eyes  from  them,  his  heart  throbbing  thick  and  fast, 
and  his  burning  brain  giddy  with  a  fullness  of  life  which,  like 
the  clouds,  seemed  to  reel  in  dissolution,  and  yet,  like  them, 
did  not  dissolve  away. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

THE     OLD     ACHAIAN     HOUR. 

A  LOW  and  melancholy  melody  was  dreaming  from  the  organ 
through  the  corridors,  as  Harrington  entered  the  still  and 


4:86  HARRINGTON. 

darkened  dwelling.  He  was  about  to  ascend  to  the  library, 
when  the  parlor  door  opened,  and  Mrs.  Eastman,  severe  and 
ashen,  beckoned  him,  with  a  ghostly  motion,  to  come  in.  He 
entered  at  once.  Closing  the  door  behind  him,  and  folding 
her  in  his  arms,  he  looked  tenderly  into  her  still  and  grief-worn 
face,  while  the  low  music  brooded  above  them  in  aerial  and 
solemn  lamentation. 

"  John,"  she  whispered,  "  where  have  you  been  ?  John,  an 
awful  feeling  has  been  with  me  since  you  left  the  house — a 
feeling  that  you  are  doing  that  which  I  cannot  bring  my  heart 
to  have  done — that  you  have  already  done  it." 

She  stopped  to  pore  with  a  ghastly  gaze  into  his  coun 
tenance.  In  the  dead  stillness,  tranced  into  deeper  stillness, 
as  it  seemed,  by  the  low  creeping  music,  he  came  into  rapport 
with  the  cold,  dark  terror  that  froze  her  soul,  and  he  felt  his 
blood  curdle  and  his  hair  stir. 

"  If  you  have  done  this,"  she  whispered  in  a  tone  that 
thrilled  him,  "  it  will  kill  me.  I  cannot  survive  it.  Tell  me 
that  you  whom  I  love  so  dearly — tell  me  that  you  have  not 
been  so  cruel  to  me.  Have  you  done  it  ?" 

"  Mother,"  he  said  sadly,  "be  at  ease.  I  have  not,  and  I 
never  will.  But,  oh  1  my  mother,  you  who  dread  this  dis 
grace  and  dishonor,  think  of  the  disgrace  and  dishonor  it 
would  be  if  that  wretched  fugitive  were  sacrificed  by  us  ! 
How  can  you  bear  to  think  of  that  ?" 

She  shuddered  and  clung  to  him,  wildly  agitated,  but  smil 
ing  ghastlily  with  the  joy  she  felt  at  the  assurance  of  her 
brother's  safety  from  public  obloquy  ;  and  still  the  low, 
lamenting  strain  above  them  dreamed  sombrely  in  hollow 
murmurs  through  the  darkened  air. 

"  I  know  it;  it  is  terrible,"  she  whispered.  "  But  it  must  be. 
Yes,  it  must  be.  Hate  me — despise  me — never  look  at  me  again ; 
but  it  must  be  so,  and  I  am  glad — very  glad.  Glad  in  my 
grief ;  full  of  grief,  but  glad.  I  am  weak,  I  am  degraded, 
but  it  is  for  his  sake,  for  my  brother's  sake.  Oh,  I  bless  you, 
I  bless  you  that  you  have  spared  him,  and  me  through  him  ; 
I  bless  you.  Hate  me,  despise  me,  if  you  must.  But  he  is 
safe  ;  the  little  child  I  played  with  once  is  safe  ;  my  brother 


HARRINGTON.  487 

whose  sins  are  many  and  grievous,  he  is  safe,  and  I  am 
glad — I  am  glad  I" 

"  Peace,  peace,  my  mother  !  Let  it  go,"  he  cried.  "  Do 
not  speak  so  to  me.  Do  not  load  yourself  with  reproach. 
Oh,  I  feel  with  you,  and  I  am  not  removed  from  you.  There 
there — let  it  all  be  forgotten.  Time  will  efface  these  sad 
hours,  and  we  will  be  happy  again." 

She  gently  withdrew  from  his  embrace,  weeping,  and 
turned  away;  and  gazing  at  her  for  a  moment,  full  of  mournful 
pity,  he  left  the  room,  and  went  slowly  up-stairs,  with  the  sad 
music  deepening  around  him. 

It  stopped  as  he  entered  the  room,  and  Muriel  rose  from  the 
organ,  and  came  swiftly  toward  him,  clad  all  in  white,  and 
noble  in  her  beauty.  He  clasped  her  in  his  arms  as  if  he  had 
not  seen  her  for  a  year. 

"  Joy  I"  she  cried,  looking  at  him  with  brilliant  eyes,  and 
a  faint  color  mantling  her  face,  "  you  come  back  to  me  with 
a  changed  look  !  You  have  succeeded." 

"  Not  yet,"  he  replied,  proudly  smiling,  "  but  we  are  going 
to  succeed.  Come,  let  us  sit  together,  and  let  me  tell  you 
what  has  occurred,  and  my  plan." 

They  sat  down,  with  their  arms  around  each  other,  and  he 
told  her  all,  and  what  he  was  going  to  do.  She  listened  to 
the  end  in  dreamful  silence,  smiling  faintly,  and  occasionally 
bending  her  graceful  head  in  assent  to  his  designs. 

"  Now,  what  do  you  think  ?"  he  asked  in  conclusion. 
"  How  does  the  enterprise  strike  you  ?" 

"  I  like  it,"  she  replied,  half  gaily.  "  It  is  bold,  simple, 
and  I  think  you  cannot  fail  of  success.  Go  manfully  then 
to  the  little  battle  for  the  good  cause,  and  come  back  with 
your  shield,  or  upon  it.  My  soul  goes  with  you." 

He  folded  her  to  his  heart,  proudly  smiling. 

"  Dear  friend,  brave  wife,"  he  said,  fondly.  "  Thank  heaven 
that  we  are  wedded  for  life's  duties  and  life's  ends  !  Oh, 
blessed  love  that  has  not  shut  us  in  a  private  luxury,  careless 
of  liberty  and  justice  and  the  tears  of  man  !  Yes — I  will  go 
on  this  enterprise  of  mercy,  and  I  feel  I  shall  succeed." 

They  sat  in  fervent  communion  till  the  twilight  fell.     Emily 


488  HARRINGTON. 

came  in  as  it  began  to  darken,  and  they  had  just  finished  tell 
ing  her  what  was  to  be  clone,  and  were  charging  her  to  say 
nothing  of  it  to  Mrs.  Eastman,  when  Wentworth  arrived  in 
great  spirits. 

"  All  right,77  he  cried,  upon  entering.  "  The  deed  is  done, 
and  I  feel  like  Benvenuto  Cellini  when  he  drew  his  rapier,  and 
fought  the  whole  gang  of  the  Pope7s  soldiers,  single-handed, 
pinking  a  couple  of  dozen  of  the  rascals.  Ha  !  that  was  an 
artist  for  you  !  Oh,  Benvenuto  was  a  regular  brick,  he  was.'7 

"  Now,  Richard  !     Slang  again,77  chided  Emily. 

"  Slang  ?  I  deny  it,77  returned  Wentworth,  impudently. 
"  Now  what  did  I  say  r 

"  You  said  Cellini  was  a  brick,77  said  Emily,  laughing. 

"  So  he  was,77  retorted  Wentworth,  gaily.  "  A  regular 
brick.  Call  brick  slang  ?  Why,  it's  one  of  the  finest  epithets 
in  the  English  language  I  What  other  term  could  you  use  that 
is  half  as  expressive  ?  And  what  was  language  made  for  but 
to  express  our  ideas  with  adequacy,  propriety,  and  elegance  ? 
Oh,  by  Jupiter  !  but  I'll  stick  to  brick  like  mortar  I" 

"  So  you  have  Johnny,77  observed  Harrington,  laughing. 

"Yes.  He7s  to  start  from  the  stable  at  about  halt-past 
twelve  and  drive  over  to  Q  street  to  bring  home  a  small  fish 
ing-party,"  replied  Wentworth,  with  a  satirical  air.  .  "  A  party 
that  goes  down  the  harbor  to  catch  black-fish.77 

"  I  hope  the  party  won't  catch  a  tartar/7  said  Emily,  jest 
ingly. 

"  Nor  a  cold,77  added  Muriel.     "  But  there's  the  tea-bell." 

They  arose  and  went  down  to  the  tea-room,  talking  and 
laughing  gaily. 

After  tea  they  returned  for  a  short  time  to  the  library. 
Presently,  Mrs.  Eastman,  feeling  unwell,  left  them,  and  retired 
for  the  night,  attended  by  Muriel,  who,  filled  with  compassion 
for  her  poor  mother,  went  with  her  to  her  chamber  and  stayed 
till  she  was  asleep. 

She  was  gone  about  half  an  hour,  and  returning  to  the 
lighted  library  at  the  expiration  of  that  time,  found  the  three 
chatting  together. 

"Now,  I  am  going  to  leave  you  two,7'  said  Harrington, 


HARRINGTON.  489 

rising,  and  addressing  Went  worth  and  Emily.  "  Muriel,  I  feel 
weary  with  the  excitements  of  this  day,  and  as  I  shall  want  all 
my  freshness  and  vigor  for  this  adventure,  I  am  going  up-stairs 
to  sleep  an  hour  or  two.  Richard,  I'll  see  you  at  the  boat." 

"  Good,"  responded  Wentworth.     "  Au  revoir." 

Harrington  bent  his  head  smilingly  to  them  both,  and  put 
ting  his  arm  around  Muriel's  waist,  drew  her  with  him  from 
the  room. 

"  Sleep  will  be  twice  sleep  with  you  near  me,"  he  tenderly 
murmured,  bending  his  face  down  to  hers,  as  they  went  up  the 
stairs  together. 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  with  pensive  playfulness,  "  I  was  afraid  you 
were  going  to  leave  me  in  exile  while  you  slept,  and  I  do  not 
wish  to  be  away  from  you  now." 

He  did  not  answer,  but  clasped  her  a  little  closer  to  him, 
and  they  ascended  in  silence  to  their  chamber. 

She  silently  lighted  a  sconce  upon  the  wall,  which  shed 
through  its  ground-glass  globe  a  mellow  moony  light  upon  the 
pure  and  virginal  room,  with  its  furniture  of  white  and  gold, 
and  its  cloud  like  couch,  overhung  with  a  drooping  fall  of  filmy 
gauze.  Then  going  to  a  closet,  she  took  from  thence  a  slender 
crystal  flask  covered  with  golden  arabesques,  and  brought  it 
to  him. 

"  See,"  she  said,  "  My  Greek  friend,  Kestor,  made  me  a 
present  of  this  more  than  a  year  ago.  It  is  Greek  wine. 
Yes — the  vine  that  gave  us  this  grew  from  the  soil  of  the 
antique  heroes.  I  have  kept  it  for  some  great  occasion,  and 
to-night  before  you  go,  you  and  I  will  drink  it." 

Smiling,  he  took  the  flask  from  her  hand  and  held  it  to  the 
light,  looking  at  the  clear  rosy-golden  glow  of  the  fine  liquid. 

"  It  is  beautiful,"  he  said.  "  Too  beautiful  to  drink.  One 
might  fancy  this  such  wine  as  Leonidas  and  the  Three  Hun 
dred  drank  at  the  last  banquet  before  they  sallied  from  the 
immortal  pass  and  fell  upon  the  hosts  of  Xerxes.  It  looks  fit 
for  the  veins  of  heroes." 

"  And  heroes'  wives,"  she  playfully  added,  with  a  charming 
smile.  "  Therefore,  you  and  I  will  drink  it,  pledging  the 
enterprise.  But  we  must  have  some  glasses." 

21* 


490  HARRINGTON. 

She  rang,  and  presently  one  of  the  maids  came  up,  went, 
and  returned  again  with  half  a  dozen  small  goblets  on  a 
tray. 

"Well,"  said  Muriel,  laughing  as  she  looked  at  the  tray, 
"  with  six  glasses  we  can  drink  pledges.  Good.  Now  let  us 
sleep." 

Turning  the  light  low,  she  unbound  her  tresses,  and 
lying  down  with  him,  kissed  his  eyelids  with  soft  and  dewy 
kisses. 

11  Sleep  sweetly,  my  beloved,"  she  murmured.  "  It  is  the 
fourth  night.  A  very  little  night,  but  the  fifth  night  will  be 
sweet  and  long,  and  full  of  rest." 

He  did  not  reply,  but  gently  kissed  her,  and  with  their  souls 
stilled  with  ineffable  tenderness  they  sank  away  together  in  a 
slumber,  innocent  and  sweet  as  that  of  childhood. 

The  room  was  dim  around  that  tranquil  rest,  and  the  faint 
light  softly  showed  the  forms  of  the  reposing  lovers.  Locked 
in  each  other's  arms,  with  the  snowy  films  drooping  from  the 
golden  ring  in  the  ceiling  in  long  and  flowing  festoons  around 
them,  they  lay  like  some  fair  picture  of  immortal  love  and 
•  peace  shadowed  within  the  clear  depths  of  a  magic  mirror  in  a 
light  of  darkling  dawn. 

An  hour  melted  slowly  by,  and  during  that  hour,  folded  to 
her  bosom,  and  breathing  the  balm  of  her  parted  lips,  the  rest 
of  Harrington  was  sweet  and  deep.  Then  a  strange  dream 
outgrew  upon  his  brain  from  the  oblivion  of  his  slumber. 

He  was  running  cautiously  along  a  vaulted  archway  of  the 
rude  Saxon  architecture,  toward  a  flight  of  five  or  six  stone 
steps,  which  led  up  into  the  open  air.  It  was  in  Saxon  Eng 
land,  in  some  time  of  trouble,  and  he  was  a  young  Saxon. 
He  saw  himself  clothed  in  a  short,  brown  tunic,  belted  at  the 
waist,  and  reaching  nearly  to  the  knees,  which  were  bare,  and 
with  leather  buskins  on  his  feet.  As  it  often  happens  in 
dreams,  he  both  was  that  figure,  and  saw  it.  It  was  himself, 
but  utterly  unlike  himself  both  in  aspect  and  character.  The 
head  was  uncovered,  save  by  short,  dark,  curling  hair  ;  the 
face  was  youthful,  unbearded,  mild  and  timid  in  expression, 
with  the  cheeks  rather  wan  ;  and  the  figure  was  that  of  a 


HAEEINGTON.  491 

slight  and  strengthless  stripling.  A  sense  of  general  carnage 
was  in  the  air  of  the  dream,  and  it  seemed  as  if  in  that  form, 
he  was  seeking  to  escape  from  enemies.  Too  gentle  and  weak 
in  nature  to  feel  violent  fear,  he  had  only  a  timorous  and  inno 
cent  apprehension  of  his  danger  ;  and  in  this  mood,  running 
on  to  the  steps,  and  ascending,  suddenly  the  opening  of  the 
archway  filled  with  armed  warriors,  and  as  he  shrank  on  the 
point  of  turning  to  flee,  their  long  axes  fell  upon  him,  and  he 
was  slain. 

He  awoke  instantly,  not  with  a  start,  but  by  simply  unclos 
ing  his  eyes.  The  dream  was  vivid,  but  not  frightful,  and 
waking  without  alarm,  his  first  and  only  thought  was  that  it 
was  a  memory  of  an  old  avatar  in  which  he  had  lived  on 
earth  in  a  different  organization  than  he  had  now,  and  had 
been  killed  young.  For  a  moment  this  feeling  came  clearly  to 
him,  and  then  sensible  of  where  he  was,  and  of  the  sweet  face 
breathing  balm  so  near  his  own,  his  eyelids  closed  with  an  irre 
sistible  drowsiness,  and  he  slept  on. 

His  sleep  was  undisturbed  for  about  half  an  hour  when 
another  strange  dream  slid  upon  his  mind.  He  was  sitting  up 
awake  in  a  bed  alone  by  himself,  and  though  the  bed  was  in  a 
room,  it  was  yet,  by  some  singular  ubiquity,  which  still  was  not 
incongruous  or  wonderful,  on  the  sidewalk  of  some  unfamiliar 
street.  Sitting  upright  in  it  in  his  night-clothes  in  a  broad, 
grey  daylight,  and  looking  over  his  shoulder,  he  saw  far,  far 
away  an  illimitable  waste  of  snow,  out  of  which  thousands 
upon  thousands  of  piteous  and  imploring  negro  faces  looked 
toward  him.  He  had  the  feeling  that  these  were  the  faces  of 
the  thirty  thousand  fugitives  who  at  that  period  had  fled  to 
Canada.  While  he  gazed  at  them,  he  beheld  coming  down 
the  street  on  the  pavement,  a  long  procession  of  the  Boston 
merchants,  all  familiar  to  him,  respectable  and  cosy  citizens 
whom  he  often  saw  about  town,  or  on  'Change.  They  all 
wore  their  usual  garb  and  aspect,  but  as  they  passed  by  his 
bed  they  all  changed,  yet  without  seeming  to  change,  into 
medieval  Jews,  with  long  avaricious  faces  and  drooping  beards 
and  stooping  shoulders,  and  eyes  bent  obliquely  upon  the 
ground  before  them.  Every  hand  clutched  a  money-bag,  and 


492  HAKIUNGTON. 

every  form  wore  the  conical  hat  and  the  long  Jewish  gaberdine 
of  Shylock.  So  they  passed  him,  and  when  they  had  passed 
they  were  Boston  merchants  again,  while  the  rest  coming  on 
changed,  yet  did  not  seem  to  change,  into  money-greedy  Jews 
as  they  went  by,  and  resumed  their  previous  forms,  though 
without  seeming  to  resume  them,  when  they  had  readied  a 
certain  vague  limit.  All  this  did  not  in  the  least  surprise  him, 
or  seem  extraordinary,  or  unusual,  but  wearying  at  last  of  the 
interminable  and  monotonous  procession,  he  sighed  and  awoke. 

Her  dreaming  face  was  still  near  him,  and  the  cool  balm  of 
her  breath  touched  his  sense  with  sweet  and  sad  ecstasy. 
There  was  a  moment  of  unutterable  weary  sorrow,  in  which 
the  bitter  symbolism  of  his  vision  lingered  with  him,  and  then, 
with  a  feeling  of  melancholy  comfort,  his  heavy  eyelids  drooped, 
and  he  slept  again. 

He  had  a  consciousness  that  he  had  slept  long,  and  with 
this  in  his  mind,  his  sleeping  soul  awoke  in  a  third  dream.  He 
had  left  his  body  and  was  in  the  air  of  the  chamber.  Spirit 
ually  light  and  poised,  with  the  delicious  sense  of  being  able 
to  float  upward  at  will,  he  was  looking  down  upon  the  couch, 
with  the  quiet  room  around  him.  He  saw  his  body  lying 
folded  in  her  arms,  the  face  sleeping  close  to  her  own.  He 
saw  how  that  face  looked  to  others,  and  felt  a  dim  wonder  at 
its  strangeness  to  his  own  eyes.  His  gaze  dwelt  with  calm 
arid  holy  tenderness,  undisturbed  by  any  regret,  upon  the  beau 
tiful  and  noble  face  of  his  beloved,  sleeping  in  its  shadowy 
tresses,  its  curved  lips  slightly  parted,  and  all  its  clear  and 
graceful  lines  composed  in  slumber.  A  thrill  of  silent  blessing 
and  farewell  stole  softly  through  his  being,  and  with  the  feel 
ing  that  he  must  go,  he  slowly  floated  backward  through  the 
wall,  which  made  no  more  resistance  than  air.  A  trance  fc 
upon  him  as  he  passed  through,  and  seemed  to  last,  though  h 
had  no  sense  of  time,  till  he  found  himself  alone  in  a  rich  and 
holy  garden.  The  strange  flowers  were  thick  and  deep,  and 
wonderful  in  mystic  beauty,  and  though  of  many  rare  and  lovely 
colors,  the  still  and  tender  living  glory  that  brooded  on  all,  gave 
them  something  of  the  rich  pallor  of  flowers  seen  in  some  imagi 
nary  pearl  and  purple  moonlight  stiller  and  fairer  than  melts 


HARRINGTON.  493 

from  any  moon  of  ours.  Or  rather,  they  seemed  pale  with  their 
own  ecstasy  of  heavenly  odor,  for  they  filled  the  soft,  self-lumi 
nous  air  with  a  fragrance  which  dissolved  through  all  his  being 
in  ethereal  and  tranquil  rapture.  Filled  with  celestial  bliss,  he 
wandered  on  through  the  purpureal  glory  of  the  garden,  under 
the  holy  shadow  of  strange  trees,  and  amidst  the  myriad -blowing 
clusters  of  the  flowers,  while  the  songs  of  birds  sounded  in  liquid 
melody  around  him,  and  yet  did  not  break  the  divine  silence 
of  the  solemn  Paradise.  And  wandering  on,  he  turned  a 
curve  of  the  path,  and  came  upon  the  gracious  presence  of  the 
man  he  loved.  He  knew  the  majestic  front,  the  vast  brow, 
the  sweet  and  piercing  eye  of  Yerulam,  and  like  a,  younger 
brother  yearning  with  affection,  he  drew  nigh  and  laid  his 
head  upon  his  breast.  The  arms  gently  enfolded  him  ;  the  re 
gal  face  bent  over  his  with  a  tender  and  benignant  smile  ;  and 
thrilling  with  the  slow  sweetness  of  an  unutterable  ecstasy,  he 
seemed  to  sink  into  the  swoon  of  the  soul,  and  the  vision  was 
gone. 

Her  arms  had  fallen  away  from  him  in  her  slumber,  and  noise 
lessly  rising  as  he  awoke,  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  couch,  and 
leaned  his  damp  brow  on  his  hand,  his  brain  light  and  clear, 
his  frame  drenched  in  the  renewing  dew  of  sleep,  and  throb 
bing  with  the  remembered  bliss  of  -his  dream,  and  one  still 
solemn  thought  distinct  in  his  mind.  He  was  to  die  1  The 
meaning  of  that  dream  was  death  !  A  slow  thrill  ran  through 
his  veins  as  he  thought  of  it.  Yes,  that  was  its  meaning.  He 
was  to  die  ! 

He  sat  still  for  some  minutes,  with  that  thought  in  his 
mind.  Gradually  the  sweetness  of  the  dream  failed  from  him, 
merged  in  a  ghostly  sense  of  the  quietude  around  him.  He 
looked  up  with  a  feeling  of  awe.  The  dim  lamplight  faintly 
lit  the  pure  and  shadowy  chamber.  All  was  vague,  motion 
less,  indefinite.  Nothing  seemed  distinct  or  living,  but  that 
strange  and  awful  conviction,  too  strong  for  any  doubt,  that 
he  was  to  die. 

Turning  slowly,  he  gazed  upon  the  face  of  Muriel.  The 
last  lingering  relic  of  the  sweetness  of  his  dream  failed  from 
him  as  he  looked  upon  her.  His  young  wife.  How  could  he 


494:  HARRINGTON. 

bear  to  leave  her !  Four  days  of  heavenly  joy  with  her — • 
heavenly  even  in  the  sorrow  that  had  lain  upon  the  last;  four 
little  days — the  divine  dawn  of  a  long  life  of  happiness — only 
four,  and  this  was  to  be  the  end  1  The  golden  gates  of  a 
beautiful  existence,  affluent  of  use  and  influence  and  fame, 
just  opened  to  him  with  her,  and  now  to  close  forever.  To 
lay  down  all  the  deliciousness,  the  joys,  the  hopes,  the  am 
bitions  of  life,  for  the  happiness  of  two  poor  negro  brothers. 
For  their  poor  trampled  rights  to  abandon  life — oh,  above  all, 
to  resign  her  I  To  die,  and  leave  her  on  earth  alone,  her 
bursting  day-spring  of  happy  and  noble  love  quenched  in  the 
black  and  blotting  cloud  of  death.  To  die — to  die  and  leave 
her. 

Icy  cold,  yet  with  a  burning  brain,  and  slow  thrills  creeping 
through  the  horror  of  his  veins,  he  turned  away,  and  sat  still. 
Hark  1  In  the  silence  came  the  distant  sound  from  a  steeple 
striking  the  hour.  He  counted  the  slow  strokes.  Eleven. 
He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  eleven  o'clock.  In  one  hour 
more  he  was  to  go. 

He  looked  around  the  quiet  room.  Life  never  seemed  to 
him  so  sweet  as  then.  In  contrast  to  the  stillness  and  seclu 
sion,  the  peaceful  comfort  and  warm  luxury  of  the  restful 
chamber,  came  the  vision  of  the  bare  and  open  night  upon  the 
bleak  waste  of  waters,  and  he  in  the  lonely  boat  with  those 
rude  men,  thinking  of  the  gentle  being  he  had  left  behind  him. 
A  sense  as  of  one  who  shivers  out  under  the  winter  stars,  and 
turns  to  the  warm  firelight  and  the  cheerful  faces  of  friends 
in  the  cosy  glow  of  home,  came  to  him,  and  with  it  came 
temptation  like  a  voice.  Turn  from  this  purpose — turn  to 
love  and  life  1  You  have  been  staunch  and  true  in  human 
kindness  to  its  uttermost  demand,  but  your  life  belongs  to  her, 
and  not  to  another.  Well  to  save  this  man  from  his  doom, 
but  not  to  fling  away  your  life  for  a  single  service,  when 
ampler  service  needs  you.  Think  of  her  suffering,  think  of  her 
mother's  grief  for  your  loss,  think,  too,  of  the  friends  you  are 
leading  into  peril.  Perhaps  your  warning  includes  them — 
think  of  those  who  will  mourn  them,  and  for  their  sakes  turn 
from  this  hopeless  purpose.  Turn,  for  this  is  warning  and  not 


HARRINGTON.  495 

fate — or  go,  still  in  safety,  and  plead  with  those  men  for  the 
fugitive's  release — threaten  them,  menace  them  with  civil 
penalties,  and  perchance  they  will  yield  him.  But  if  they  do 
not,  all  is  done  that  you  are  called  to  do,  and  life  is  more  than 
you  are  called  to  give  ;  so  turn  away  from  them,  and  tell  your 
friends  you  cannot  risk  their  safety,  and  come  back  here  to 
long  years  of  happiness  with  her. 

Sitting  in  icy  silence,  the  temptings  rose  within  his  brain, 
clear  as  if  a  still  and  gentle  voice  had  breathed  them,  and  min 
gled  with  a  siren  sense  of  honeyed  music  that  seemed  to  circle 
round  and  round  him  like  an  airy  coil.  Suddenly  he  sprang 
up  with  a  spasm  of  heroic  grief  and  agony,  and  stood  quiver 
ing  with  his  eyes  covered  by  his  hands.  Her  eyelids  unclosed, 
and  lying  still,  she  looked  at  him.  The  next  instant,  she 
leaped  from  the  couch  and  clasped  him  in  her  arms. 

There  was  a  long  pause  of  awful  silence,  in  which  he  stood 
with  head  uplifted  and  his  eyes  covered  with  his  hands,  while 
she  clung  to  him,  her  face  still  between  its  thick  length  of 
waven  tresses,  and  gazed  with  dilated  eyes  into  his  half-hid 
features. 

"  My  beloved  !  My  own  beloved,  what  is  this  ?  Was  it 
a  dream  ?  Be  calm — be  strong.  I  am  with  you.  I  hold 
you  in  my  arms.  No  evil  thing  can  come  to  you  when  I  am 
near.  Love  clasps  you,  my  dear  and  gentle  lover,  and  no 
thing  can  harm  you." 

At  the  full,  tender  silver  of  her  voice,  the  shadows  and  the 
terrors  rushed  from  his  soul.  His  hands  fell  from  his  still  and 
pallid  features,  and  putting  his  arms  around  her,  he  gazed 
into  her  face. 

"  Hush  I"  he  murmured.  "  A  moment  !  I  will  tell  you  in 
a  moment." 

They  stood  in  silence  gazing  at  each  other. 

Presently  his  arms  fell  from  her,  and  swiftly  gliding  away 
she  turned  up  the  light,  which  at  once  filled  the  room  with 
mellow  radiance.  Hurriedly,  he  bound  on  his  shoes,  put  his 
pistol  in  his  breast,  and  sat  on  the  couch  beside  her. 

"  Muriel,"  said  he,  "  you  were  right  ;  I  have  had  dreams. 
Listen." 


496  HAERINGTON. 

In  a  low,  clear  voice,  he  told  her  all.  The  narration  occu 
pied  several  minutes,  and  during  that  time  she  listened  with  a 
still  face  and  lips  parted.  He  ceased  at  length,  and  there  was 
a  long  pause. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?"  she  murmured.  "  Do  you  take 
these  dreams  as  augury  ?" 

"  Muriel,"  said  he  with  solemn  and  passionate  tenderness, 
"  do  you  remember  what  you  said  when  we  lay  down  to  slum 
ber  ?  It  comes  again  to  me  now.  You  said  :  '  It  is  the  fourth 
night;  a  very  little  night;  but  the  fifth  night  will  be  sweet  and 
long,  and  full  of  rest.'  Oh,  my  beloved,  sweet  and  long,  and 
full  of  rest  may  it  be  to  you  1  Sweet  and  long,  and  full  of 
rest,  it  will  be  to  me.  To-night  I  go  from  you.  Can  you 
bear  that  I  should  go  when  I  am  not  to  return  ?  For  the 
dream  meant  death,  and  I  am  going  away  to  die." 

One  spasm  of  overmastering  pain  convulsed  her  features, 
and  vanished.  The  next  instant  her  face  was  calm,  between 
its  fall  of  shadowy  tresses  ;  her  lips  were  lightly  closed  ;  her 
eyes  were  fixed  on  his.  But  a  torrent  rush  of  memories  over- 
swept  her — memories  of  omens  and  presentiments  that  had 
mysteriously  foreshadowed  this  ;  and  a  mighty  feeling  rose 
within  her,  and  told  her  that  this  was  the  voice  of  the  prescient 
soul.  Not  for  an  instant  did  she  think  he  was  deceived,  and 
the  calmness  that  sank  upon  her  spirit  was  the  shadow  of 
eternity. 

"  To  die  I"  she  answered,  in  a  slow,  rapt  voice.  "  Going 
away  from  me  to  die." 

Her  lips  closed,  and  pressing  one  hand  to  her  bosom,  she 
lifted  her  clear,  still  eyes  to  heaven,  and  her  countenance 
became  pale  and  radiant  as  though  it  gazed  upon  the  face  of 
God. 

There  was  a  long  interval  of  terrible  silence. 

11  It  is  true,"  she  said  at  length,  in  low,  abstracted  tones, 
"he  is  to  leave  me.  Our  happiness  foreran  the  ages.  The 
world  could  not  sustain  it.  The  music  was  too  divinely  sweet 
to  last,  and  it  melts  back  from  earth  !  Well,  well,  I  know 
it  now.  The  days  have  been  filled  with  tokens  and  prophecies 
of  this,  and  now  I  understand  them.  Yes — he  is  to  die  !" 


HARRINGTON.  497 

Slowly  her  eyes  grew  back  to  him.  He  sat  motionless,  his 
face  pallid  in  shadow,  gazing  with  mournful  awe  upon  her  clear, 
pale  features. 

"  Have  you  had  presentiments  of  this,  Muriel  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  in  a  hushed  voice  ;  "  there  have  been 
many.  They  crowd  upon  me  now.  You  remember  what  I 
told  you  of  that  morning  when  I  thought  you  loved  Emily — 
how  strangely  your  face  smiled  on  me  in  my  reverie  from 
that  immeasurable  distance.  I  know  now  what  it  meant. 
That  was  a  veiled  prevision.  Oh,  my  beloved,  you  smiled  upon 
my  soul  from  the  depths  of  Eternity  1" 

A  slow,  cold  thrill  went  through  him  at  the  solemn  tender 
ness  of  her  voice,  and  for  a  few  moments  his  mind  gathered 
blankness.  Gradually  the  prefigurations  of  this  hour  which 
had  filled  his  life  for  days  past,  came  to  him. 

"  I,  too,  have  had  spiritual  warnings  of  this,"  he  murmured. 
"  My  soul  has  told  me  much  lately.  You  remember  my  sad 
fancy  when  I  left  you  on  Sunday  morning,  that  I  was  not  to 
return.  And  on  the  evening  of  that  day  the  event  occurred 
which  separates  us." 

"  Yes,"  she  responded,  "  and  that  was  the  morning  when  I 
dreamed  that  you  were  gone  from  earth,  and  were  looking  at 
me  as  I  moved  through  life  alone." 

Again  a  long  silence  succeeded. 

"  To  wake  from  our  happy  sleep  thus,"  she  said,  suddenly, 
11  is  it  not  strange  !  Is  it  not  awful !  And  yet  I  realize  it 
all.  I  realize  that  these  are  our  last  moments  together.  To 
deny  these  presentiments  is  impossible.  Yes — it  is  destiny.  Is 
it  not  ?  Is  there  any  escape  for  us  ?" 

"  It  rests  with  my  will,  Muriel,"  he  answered.  "I  believe 
this  dream  is  only  a  warning.  If  I  stay  here  with  you  I 
am  safe.  It  rests  with  me  to  decide  whether  I  will  go  or 
stay." 

"  Can  nothing  be  done  ?"  she  hurriedly  asked.  "  Is  there 
no  other  way  of  saving  this  man  ?" 

" None,"  he  answered.  "It  is  too  late  now.  The  ship 
sails  in  a  few  hours.  There  is  nothing  but  for  me  to  go 
at  midnight  and  rescue  Antony,  or  leave  him  to  his  fate, 


498  HARRINGTON. 

and  Ronx  to  death  or  madness.  One  thing  alone  shakes 
me." 

"  What  r  she  asked. 

"The  suffering  my  death  will  give  your  mother,"  he 
answered.  "  It  may  kill  her." 

"  And  if  you  die  her  brother's  infamy  will  become  known," 
she  replied.  "  Public  inquiry  will  follow,  and  all  she  wishes 
kept  secret  will  be  exposed  with  the  added  guilt  of  your  death 
upon  it." 

He  did  not  answer,  and  she  remained  silent  for  a  few 
moments,  with  her  soul  wildly  stirred. 

"Oh,  Lemuel  Atkins,"  she  exclaimed  at  length,  "if  you 
only  knew  the  harm  you  have  done  us  !" 

"  Pity  him,  Muriel,"  answered  Harrington.  "  Both  he  and 
Lafitte  are  the  cause  of  this  disaster.  Let  us  pity  and  forgive 
them.  They  are  the  victims,  and  not  we." 

" I  do,"  she  responded,  clasping  her  hands  ;  "I  pity  and 
forgive  them." 

"  It  only  remains  for  me  to  decide,"  he  said,  after  a  pause. 
"If  I  go  to-night  I  feel  I  shall  save  Antony.  But  I 
think  it  will  not  be  done  without  a  struggle,  and  I  shall 
be  killed.  On  the  other  hand  is  your  mother's  grief,  and 
all  the  consequences  of  my  death,  and  if  I  stay  these  will  be 


"  What  do  you  decide  ?"  she  said,  quickly. 

"  Muriel,"  said  he,  tenderly,  "  I  have  not  spoken  once  of 
what  you  lose  in  losing  me,  for  I  know  your  nobleness,  my 
wife,  and  I  know  that  you  can  resign  me  to  duty." 

She  flung  her  arms  around  him,  her  eyes  glowing  and  her 
features  kindling  into  flushed  and  exalted  loveliness. 

"  Do  not  think  of  me,"  she  said  in  a  clear  and  fervent  voice. 
"  Oh,  my  husband,  we  were  wedded  in  love  for  liberty,  in  love 
for  all  mankind,  and  we  cannot  be  divided.  Think  alone  of 
duty — for  death  can  only  separate  us  a  little  while,  and  we 
are  wedded  in  love  forever." 

He  gazed  at  her  with  lit  eyes. 

"  I  will  be  worthy  of  you,"  he  answered,  with  proud  fervor. 
"  The  Hereafter  is  ours.  Many  an  earthly  marriage  is  but 


HAEEINGTON.  499 

a  tent  of  the  night,  folded  by  death,  and  never  to  be  raised 
again  ;  but  ours  is  a  temple  eternal  in  the  heavens." 

Drawing  her  to  his  bosom,  he  pressed  his  lips  to  hers  ;  then 
rose  to  his  feet,  and  stood  before  her. 

"  My  duty  is  clear,  Muriel,"  he  said,  in  firm,  determined 
tones.  "  What  is  all  suffering  that  will  follow  my  death,  com 
pared  with  the  suffering  and  the  wrong  my  death  will  prevent  ? 
Think  of  the  scene  we  saw  at  Roux's  house,  when  Emily 
wished  to  buy  his  brother.  Think  of  Antony  being  dragged 
back  to  torture  and  murder.  Think  of  that  poor  brother's 
agony  when  he  learns  that  Antony  has  been  recaptured. 
Think  of  all  the  misery  and  the  outrage  now  impending.  It 
must  not  be.  And  beyond  it  all  is  the  duty  I  owe  my 
country  and  mankind.  I  have  sworn  to  balk  tyrants — I  have 
sworn  to  stand  up  for  the  helpless  and  the  poor.  Never  yet 
has  a  man  suffered  wrong  that  I  could  prevent,  or  gone  unsuc- 
cored  when  I  could  succor  him.  Not  now  shall  the  weak  and 
friendless  find  me  a  dastard  in  their  cause.  So  then  " 

He  paused,  stifled  with  sudden  emotion. 

"  So  then" —  she  repeated,  looking  at  him  with  a  still 
countenance. 

A  rapture  of  color  blazed  upon  his  pallid  face,  and  he  flung 
up  his  arms. 

"  So  then,"  he  cried,  in  a  ringing  voice,  "  I  must  say  like 
him  of  the  old  Commonwealth,  '  To  heaven,  my  love,  to 
heaven,  and  leave  you  in  the  storm  !' " 

Her  eyes  flashed,  and  she  rose  to  her  feet  with  the  rich 
blood  glowing  in  her  kindled  features. 

"  Brave  heart  1"  she  passionately  cried,  "  one  hour  of  life 
with  you  is  worth  annihilation  !  Away  with  grief — let  $it 
never  come  nigh  me  1  I  swear  to  you,  Harrington,  never, 
when  you  are  gone,  shall  one  pulse  of  sorrow  stir  within  me — 
never  shall  one  tear  stain  the  lustre  of  my  soul's  pride  in  you  ! 
You  die — die  ? — no  ! — it  is  not  death,  but  life  !  It  is  the  life 
of  life  to  die  for  man  1" 

"  Ay  !"  he  exclaimed,  with  rapturous  fervor,  "  I  feel  it  so. 
It  is  life  to  live  for  man.  It  is  the  life  of  life  to  die  for  him. 
It  is  sweet  to  die  for  one's  country,  and  to-night  I  die  for 


500  HARRINGTON. 

mine.  Far  in  the  future  I  see  it — my  own  dear  land,  my 
America,  the  land  where  all  shall  be  free  and  equal,  the  land 
of  lovers  and  of  friends.  Oh,  my  land,  of  you  I  dream,  for 
you  I  have  lived,  for  you  I  die  !" 

She  stood  gazing  at  him  as  he  poured  forth  these  words — 
her  face  white  and  radiant,  her  eyes  brilliant,  her  hands  pressed 
to  her  bosom,  which  rose  and  fell  in  quick  pulsations. 

"  And  for  you,"  he  cried,  as  his  eyes  rested  upon  her,  "  for 
my  love  of  you  I  die.  Oh,  my  wife,  I  love  you  greatly,  or  I 
could  not  leave  you  !  I  could  not  love  you  truly  if  I  failed  in 
love  for  liberty  and  justice.  Dying  for  them,  I  prove  my  love 
for  you." 

With  a  low,  adoring  cry  she  was  in  his  arms,  and  clasping 
each  other,  they  moved  to  the  centre  of  the  chamber,  with 
sweet  and  passionate  words  of  affection  and  farewell.  The 
burning  moments  of  that  last  sublime  communion  sped  swiftly 
by,  and  the  time  for  the  earthly  parting  drew  near. 

"It  is  the  last  banquet,"  she  said,  with  a  bright  smile. 
"  To-night  is  your  Thermopyla3." 

"  Ours,"  he  quickly  answered.  "  Ours,  for  you,  too,  die. 
Your  death  is  to  be  divided  from  me — a  sterner  and  loftier 
death  than  mine." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  with  solemn  fervor,  "it  is  indeed  my 
death.  My  heart  is  proud,  my  soul  is  filled  with  joy,  but  I 
die,  for  life  will  never  be  truly  life  again  till  I  meet  you  in  the 
land  of  the  asphodel.  So  be  it.  I  do  not  quail.  For  you, 
for  me,  it  is  the  old  Achaian  hour." 

"  For  you,  for  me,"  he  fervently  responded.  "  I  await  you 
in  the  Hereafter.  My  life  will  be  but  half  divine  until  you 
coine.  Now  we  must  part." 

She  clung  to  him  for  a  moment,  then  withdrew  from  his 
arms. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  taking  up  the  flask,  "  the  last  pledge. 
Ah,  wine  of  the  land  of  Leonidas,  little  did  I  dream  we  should 
pour  you  to  the  pledge  of  the  immortals  !  But  the  old  Greek 
hour — the  festal  hour  of  death  has  dawned. 

With  a  quick,  deft  blow  on  a  marble  console,  she  smote  the 
top  from  the  flask,  and  filled  the  six  goblets  with  the  rosy- 


HARRINGTON.  501 

golden  wine.  Each  took  one.  Holding  up  the  glass,  her  pale 
face  lit  with  a  dazzling  smile,  her  fine  nostrils  quivering,  and 
the  long,  bright  locks  flowing  over  her  white  vesture,  her 
noble  figure,  in  its  debonair  abandon,  wore  the  old  Greek 
Bacchanal  grace  and  glow. 

"  The  wine  from  the  land  of  the  Three  Hundred  is  fit  to 
pledge  liberty's  defence,"  she  gaily  said.  "  Come,  let  our  first 
pledge  be — In  Liberty's  Defence  1" 

"  Good  1"  he  answered.     "  In  Liberty's  Defence  !" 

The  goblets  clanged,  the  pledge  was  drank,  and  the  glasses 
were  flung  down.  They  took  up  two  more. 

"  And  now  ?"  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  sweet  and  solemn  face. 

"  And  now,"  he  answered,  "  forgiveness  and  compassion. 
For  all  injuries,  for  all  baseness,  for  all  trampling  of  the  rich 
upon  the  poor,  for  all  trampling  of  the  strong  upon  the  weak — 
forgiveness  and  compassion  !" 

"With  my  whole  soul,"  she  solemnly  and  gently  replied. 
"  For  the  sordid  and  the  cruel — forgiveness  and  compassion  !" 

The  goblets  softly  clanged,  the  tender  pledge  was  drank, 
and  the  glasses  were  flung  down. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  as  they  took  up  the  last  two,  "  the  first 
pledge  was  in  wine  from  the  land  of  Leonidas.  But  the 
second  was  in  wine  from  the  land  of  Socrates.  Let  the  third 
be  drank  in  wine  from  the  land  of  both — the  saint  and  the 
hero  ;  for  the  pledge  is  mighty." 

"  Speak  it,  my  beloved,"  she  said,  in  clear  and  thrilling 
tones. 

" Drink,"  his  deep  voice  sounded,  "drink  the  deep  pledge 
in  the  wine  from  the  bright  ideal  shore,  to  the  Spirit  whase 
wings  span  the  .world,  whose  life  pulses  through  the  universe — 
the  Spirit  for  whom  we  live  and  die  !" 

"  I  know,  I  know  !"  she  cried.  "  Spirit,  we  drink  to  thee 
in  the  wine  from  the  holy  shore  !  Spirit  of  every  noble 
thought  and  deed  and  passion,  whose  breath  is  life  to  liberty 
and  justice,  and  the  soul  of  man — to  thee,  for  whom  we  live 
and  die — TRUE  LOVE,  we  drink  to  thee  I" 

They  quaffed  the  fiery  and  aerial  wine,  and  dashing  the  gob- 


502  HARRINGTON. 

lets  ringing  and  shivering  on  the  floor,  they  sprang  into  each 
other's  arms.  One  long  and  close  embrace — one  long  and 
passionate  clinging  kiss — and  they  withdrew. 

"  Hereafter  1" 

Their  voices  rang  together  by  a  common  impulse  in  the 
word :  and  with  one  long  dreaming  gaze  of  impassioned  tender 
ness  upon  her  proud  and  radiant  face,  he  rushed  away  to  his 
death  like  a  bridegroom  to  his  bride. 


CHAPTER    XXXIV. 

IN  LIBERTY'S  DEFENCE. 

A  LOW,  guttural  mutter  of  distant  thunder  shuddered  through 
the  air  as  Harrington  rushed  into  the  night,  and  turning  at  the 
head  of  the  street,  he  saw  the  knotted  snakes  of  the  lightning 
flash  and  writhe,  and  vanish,  inextricable,  on  the  slow-heaving 
wall  of  heavy  thunder-cloud  that  filled  the  western  sky.  Black 
poisonous  vapors,  the  flying  couriers  of  the  coming  tempest, 
fled  swiftly  up  the  zenith,  and  half  obscured  the  livid  and  tot 
tering  moon  ;  and  projected  in  the  yet  unclouded  purple  east 
before  him,  redly  glimmered  the  large  few  stars.  He  did  not 
pause,  but  strode  rapidly  on,  while  the  fitful  gusts  of  the  rising 
wind  swept  the  dim,  deserted  streets  into  storms  of  dust 
around  him.  It  was  a  wild  night,  and  heaven  and  earth 
seemed  to  reel  in  the  gathering  darkness ;  but  his  soul  was  un 
shaken,  and  he  was  strong  to  die. 

The  moon  was  hid  before  he  had  reached  Beacon  street,  and 
a  solid  blackness,  lit  only  at  intervals  by  wild,  bright  flashes  of 
still  distant  lightning,  filled  the  lampless  streets.  Behind  him, 
as  he  sped  on,  the  low  ominous  thunder  shuddered  through  the 
black  vast,  and  the  dust  swept  around  him  in  rustling  storms 
through  the  darkness.  He  met  no  one — every  person  was 
safely  housed,  and  even  the  watchmen  had  crept  away  into 
sheltered  nooks  from  the  tempest. 


HARllINQTON.  503 

A  melancholy  and  funereal  sound  of  bells  tolled  vaguely 
through  the  thick  air,  striking  the  midnight  hour,  as  he  reached 
the  head  of  State  street.  The  streaming  gusts  had  lulled,  and 
in  dead  silence,  broken  only  by  the  hollow  tramp  of  his  quick 
footfalls,  and  by  an  occasional  muffled  shudder  of  rolling  thun 
der,  he  sped  over  the  deserted  pavement,  while  ever  and  anon 
the  sudden  blue  of  the  lightning  lit  for  a  moment  the  dark 
bulks  of  the  looming  buildings,  and  gleamed  ghastfully  on 
their  multitude  of  gilded  signs  to  vanish  into  sightless  dark 
ness. 

Soon  he  reached  the  wharf,  and  saw  beyond  the  dim  wilder 
ness  of  masts  and  yards,  far  out  at  sea,  under  the  heavy  canopy 
of  cloud,  a  broad  half-sphere  of  clear  purple  sky  with  the 
moonlit  level  of  the  distant  ocean  shining  in  lustrous  sil 
ver  beneath  it.  Again  the  lightning  quivered,  bluely  irradi 
ating  for  an  instant  the  dark  vault  into  livid  violet,  and  as  it 
vanished,  and  the  darkness  closed,  a  long,  staggering  roll  of 
heavy  thunder  resounded  above  him,  and  a  few  large  drops  of 
rain  fell. 

Breaking  into  a  run,  he  sped  along  the  pier,  and  presently 
saw  a  vague  figure  standing  and  looking  toward  him.  It  was 
Captain  Fisher,  dressed  in  an  oil-skin  coat  and  tarpaulin,  on 
which  the  sprinkling  ram  was  pattering. 

"Here  I  am,"  whispered  Harrington.  "Have  they  ar 
rived  1" 

"  Yes,"  returned  the  Captain  in  a  low  voice.  "  We're  all 
here." 

"  In  then,  and  away  at  once,"  returned  Harrington,  rushing 
along  the  pier  in  advance  of  him  to  the  boat. 

They  came  upon  it  presently,  and  in  a  faint  shimmer  of 
blue  lightning  Harrington  saw  Wentworth  and  Bagasse  stand 
ing  below  him  in  the  little  vessel.  Letting  himself  down  from 
the  pier,  he  dropped  lightly  into  it,  followed  by  the  Captain. 

"  By  Jove  1"  murmured  Wentworth,  with  a  low  laugh, 
while  the  Captain  was  unhampering  the  sails,  "  this  is  a  bad 
night  for  our  work." 

"  No,  it's  a  good  night,"  whispered  Harrington,  glancing 
up  at  the  hulls  of  the  two  vessels  between  which  the  boat  lay, 


HAKKHSTGTON. 

to  be  sure  that  no  one  was  listening.  "  The  storm  is  a  real 
godsend,  for  it  will  be  sure  to  drive  those  fellows  in  doors,  and 
I  hope  every  man  of  them." 

"  Ah,  ze  dam  rain,"  growled  Bagasse.  "  She  will  wet  our 
jacket  for  us." 

Harrington  turned  away,  cast  off  the  painter,  and  the  boat 
moved  out  a  little  way  from  her  moorings. 

"  How'll  you  have  her,  John  ?"  whispered  the  Captain, 
referring  to  the  arrangement  of  the  sails. 

"  There'll  be  a  streaming  wind  presently,"  replied  Harring 
ton,  with  a  glance  at  the  sky.  "  We'd  better  have  two  reefs 
in  the  mainsail  and  one  in  the  jib.  Then  she'll  drive." 

The  Captain  and  Wentworth  seized  the  halyards,  and  up 
went  the  sails.  Harrington  took  the  tiller,  and  while  they 
busied  themselves  at  the  reefing  nettles,  the  boat  moved  silently 
through  the  black  water  between  the  long  vista  made  by  the 
dark  hulls  of  the  vessels  on  either  side.  The  wind  was  in  the 
lull  preceding  the  tempest,  but  it  was  sufficient  to  belly  the 
sail,  and  push  them  with  silent  swiftness  before  it.  Large 
drops  of  rain  plashed  on  the  little  vessel  and  in  the  dark  water 
as  they  went  on.  Presently,  Bagasse,  with  a  Frenchman's 
aversion  to  wet,  went  forward  muttering,  and  crept  into  the 
cuddy.  The  Captain  sat  on  the  thwart  with  the  mainsheet  in 
his  hand,  and  Wcntworth  beside  him.  Harrington,  with  one 
hand  on  the  tiller,  was  silently  brooding  on  the  ghostly  effect 
of  the  dark  hulls  and  piers  on  either  side,  which  made  the  place 
seem  like  the  black  wharves  of  Acheron. 

Silently,  amidst  the  soft  plashing  of  the  sprinkling  rain,  they 
glided  out  into  the  salt  smell  of  the  open  harbor,  and  as  the 
blue  lightning  shook  over  the  broad  vault  and  dark  sea,  they 
saw  a  boat  with  several  rowers  shoot  across  their  bows  at  a 
distance  of  about  thirty  yards.  It  was  the  harbor  police,  and 
their  boat  at  once  hove  to. 

"  Hallo  there,"  roared  a  rough  voice  over  the  waters — 
"  who's  that,  and  where  are  you  bound  such  a  night  as  this  ?" 

"  It's  me,  Belcher/7  shouted  the  Captain.  "  Eldad  Fisher 
and  the  Polly  Ann.  GoinJ  down  on  business." 

The  Polly  Ann  glided  past  the  police  boat  as  he  spoke. 


HARRINGTON.  505 

"  All  right/'  returned  Belcher,  with  a  laugh.  "  Great  night 
th'ough  to  go  on  business,  'Dad.  Row,  men." 

The  oars  at  once  fell  with  a  roll  in  the  rullocks,  as  the  Cap 
tain  would  have  phrased  it,  and  the  police  bout  shot  away. 

Nothing  was  said  in  the  Polly  Ann,  and  she  moved  on  with 
a  steady  motion,  the  drawing  wind  pulling  her  bulging  sail. 
The  Captain  had  lit  his  short  pipe,  and  had  turned  with  his 
face  to  the  west,  watching  for  the  breeze.  Harrington  sat  in 
silence  solemnly  brooding  on  the  strange  scene  around  him. 
Overhead  a  rack  of  solid  darkness  ;  underneath  the  inky  swells 
of  the  wide  sea,  like  a  sea  of  weltering  shadow,  which  broke 
as  the  boat  clove  its  silent  way  into  a  flow  of  soft  gloomy 
phosphorescent  fire  from  her  prow  and  in  her  wake  ;  before  him 
the  uncouth  crouching  figure  of  the  Captain,  with  the  red  glow 
of  his  pipe  momently  lighting  his  cheek  in  little  flashes,  and 
giving  his  face  the  grim,  leathern  look  of  some  weird  Charon 
piloting  them  over  the  sullen  lake  of  Death  ;  and  beyond  in 
the  far  distance,  below  the  sombre  canopy,  that  shape  of  clear 
sky,  smaller  now,  with  the  silver  level  of  the  sea  beneath  it, 
calm  and  lustrous  as  the  ocean  of  Eternity.  A  sense  of  sombre 
sweetness  melted  into  the  young  man's  heart,  as  he  gazed  over 
the  solemn  and  awful  flood  of  shadow  to  that  melancholy  glory 
far  away.  He  thought  of -that  last  hour  with  her  ;  of  their 
proud  and  exulting  parting  ;  he  thought  of  her  standing  now, 
graceful  and  radiant  as  a  Greek  goddess,  and  noble  in  her 
widowhood,  dreaming  of  him  with  the  mellow  light  of  the  holy 
room  around  her,  while'  he  drifted  on  qyer  the  sullen  water 
toward  that  bright  line  of  jasper,  like  one  drifting  from  eternal 
Night  to  the  ocean  of  eternal  Day. 

A  moment,  and  the  heavy  canopy  closed  down  over  the 
clear  horizon,  and  all  was  impenetrable  darkness.  The  wind 
freshened  with  a  long,  mysterious  sigh,  the  sails  swelled  and 
strained,  and  the  boat  began  to  rush  with  the  water  gurgling 
and  brattling  around  her  bows,  and  flowing  swiftly  past  her 
sides  and  from  her  stern  in  a  brighter  gloom  of  phosphorescent 
fire.  Except  that  strange  senescent  light,  and  the  red  glow 
of  the  revolving  beacon  far  down  tli#  harbor,  which  every  lit 
tle  while  glared  in  the  darkness  like  a  sombre  eye,  there  was 

22 


506  HARRINGTON. 

no  glimmer  on  all  the  black  expanse  under  the  vast  and  hollow 
vault  of  sooty  cloud. 

Suddenly,  while  the  broad  blue  shuttle  of  the  lightning 
shook  over  the  wild  and  livid  sea,  the  solid  darkness  of  the 
rack  split  with  a  crash  in  a  long,  bright  jagged  crack  of  fire, 
and  closed  again  with  a  tremendous  trampling  roar.  At  once 
through  the  blackness,  the  headlong  torrent  dropped  hissing 
and  seething  on  the  water,  the  heavy  wind  streamed  stagger 
ing  down,  shook  the  craft,  stopped  and  reeled,  rose  howling 
in  a  mighty  forward  gale,  and  amidst  the  cataract  rushing  of 
the  rain,  the  heeling  boat  tore  like  a  fury  through  the  level 
sea  with  the  spray  flying  over  her  bows,  and  the  wash  rippling 
in  at  her  gunnel.  On  she  fled,  leaning  down  with  her  bulging 
sails  strained  as  though  they  would  burst  from  the  bolt-ropes, 
the  water  swishing  swiftly  past  her  side  and  rushing  from  her 
stern  in  phosphorescent  gloom,  the  rain  plashing  in  clattering 
riot  on  her  planks  and  canvas,  and  the  whole  inky  flood  beaten 
into  myriad-millioned  jets  of  springing  flame  around  her. 
Again  shook  the  broad  blue  shuttle  of  the  lightning,  illuminat 
ing  the  darkness  for  an  instant  with  a  ghastly  bloom,  and 
showing  the  wild  shapes  of  the  clouds,  and  again  through  the 
following  blackness  burst  the  roar  of  the  tumbling  thunder, 
dying  away  in  the  sweeping  rush  of  the  headlong  wind,  and 
the  voluminous  plash  and  clatter  of  the  falling  torrent.  Not 
a  word  was  spoken  on  board  the  flying  boat.  The  Captain 
sat  grimly  holding  the  tail  of  the  mainsheet,  ready  to  let  fly 
at  a  moment's  warning  ;  and  Wentworth,  with  a  tin-pail  in  his 
hands,  baled  out  the  water  as  fast  as  it  came  in,  while  Har 
rington,  bare-headed,  for  he  had  taken  off  his  felt-hat  to  wrap 
around  his  pistol  that  it  might  be  kept  dry,  and  tucked  both 
into  his  bosom,  sat  grasping  the  tiller,  drenched,  like  every 
one  on  board,  save  the  mackintoshed  Captain  and  Bagasse,  to 
the  skin,  his  soul  throbbing  with  stern  glory  in  the  splendid 
terrors  of  the  storm.  So,  amidst  wind  and  rain  and  darkness, 
and  the  incessant  bursts  of  lightnings,  rosy-purple  now,  and 
the  tumbling  roll  of  thunder,  the  boat  held  her  flying  course 
through  seething  flood  and  showering  spray. 

At  the  headlong  velocity  with  which  she  flew,  with  the  wind 


HARRINGTON.  507 

right  abaft  and  a  level  sea  beneath  her  hull,  it  could  not  take 
her  long  to  reach  the  port  to  which  the  hand  of  Harrington 
steered  her.  It  was  perhaps  hardly  half  an  hour  before,  in  a 
sheeting  flood  of  rose  and  purple  lightning,  he  saw  the  large, 
humpy  mass  of  the  island  loom  up  from  the  sea  before  him. 
The  darkness  fell,  followed  by  the  thunder,  and  the  boat  sped 
on.  Soon  came  another  sheet  of  lightning,  and  this  time, 
much  nearer  the  island  now,  he  saw  the  house  upon  it,  and 
caught  a  glimpse  of  two  boats  lying  at  the  wharf  on  the 
southern  side  of  the  shore.  The  rain  had  begun  to  slacken, 
and  the  wind  to  abate  its  violence.  He  waited  a  moment  till 
the  thunder  had  rolled  away,  and  then  called  the  Captain  to 
him. 

"  Captain,"  said  he,  "  settle  away  the  sails,  call  Bagasse, 
and  out  with  the  oars.  I  am  going  to  run  the  boat  to  the 
northwestern  side  of  the  island,  out  of  sight  of  the  fellow 
we're  after." 

The  captain  sprang  away,  cast  off  the  main-sheet,  while 
Wentworth  seized  the  jib,  and  amidst  the  clank  and  rattle  of 
hoops  and  halyards,  the  sails  were  settled  and  clewed,  and 
the  boat  swung  masterless  upon  the  brine.  Bagasse  came 
creeping  out  of  the  cuddy  at  the  call  of  Wentworth,  and  Har 
rington  securing  the  tiller  rose  and  came  forward. 

"  Hah  !"  said  the  Frenchman,  hoarsely,  "  I  haf  my  jacket 
dry  !  Br-r-r  !  It  is  ze  night  of  ze  old  devail  wis  his  ton- 
nerre  and  light  and  rain  watair."  And  with  a  shrug,  he 
looked  out  on  the  black  expanse  around  him,  and  held  out  his 
hand  to  see  how  much  rain  was  falling. 

"  The  rain  is  nearly  over,"  said  Harrington,  observing  his 
motion,  as  he  stooped  to  take  up  an  oar.  "  Can  you  row, 
Bagasse  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  row  vair  fine,"  returned  the  fencing-master, 
taking  up  another,  and  seating  himself. 

They  all  took  their  places,  Harrington  at  the  stroke-oar,  the 
blades  fell  into  the  water,  and  the  boat  turned  and  shot  to  the 
northwestern  side  of  the  island.  A  few  minutes'  rowing 
brought  them  to  the  shore,  and  at  the  word  of  command  they 
rested,  backing  water,  and  keeping  within  about  ten 


508  HAEEINGTON. 

distance  from  the  strand.  At  that  moment  the  lightning 
blazed,  showing  them  the  little  beach  covered  with  a  mass  of 
huge  pebbles,  and  the  steep  acclivity  just  beyond  which  led  to 
the  grassy  summit  of  the  island. 

A  few  moments'  discussion  ensued,  Harrington  having  sug 
gested  that  perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  make  the  attack  by 
rowing  up  to  the  boat  of  the  kidnappers,  instead  of  going 
across  the  island  as  he  had  intended.  Presently  it  was 
decided  to  carry  out  the  original  plan,  as  if  the  guard  saw  a 
boat  approaching,  he  might  summon  his  fellows,  and  thus 
necessitate  a  conflict. 

"  Now,  friends,  attention,"  said  Harrington.  "  Captain, 
take  my  oar.'7 

The  Captain  who  sat  by  his  side  with  one  oar,  took  the 
other,  and  Harrington  stepping  past  the  other  two,  turned  and 
faced  them  all. 

"  Listen,"  said  he.  "  I  am  now  going  on  shore  to  reconnoitre, 
which  can  be  best  done  by  one  person.  If  there  is  only  one 
man  in  the  boat,  I  can  easily  handle  him.  If  there  are  more, 
I  will  return  and  we  will  all  go  up  together  ;  for  though  I  am 
loth  to  imperil  your  lives,  we  must  not  put  success  at  hazard. 
Stay  here,  and  wait  for  me.  On  no  account  leave  the  boat, 
till  I  come  to  you.  Remember  now,  for  if  you  come  on  shore 
when  I  have  left  you,  it  may  cost  me  my  life.  Bagasse,  I 
trust  you,  old  soldier,  to  see  that  I  am  obeyed." 

'  He  uttered  the  last  sentence  in  French,  that  Bagasse  might 
not  mistake  him. 

"  It  shall  be  so,  my  captain,  since  you  command  it,"  re 
turned  the  Frenchman,  in  the  same  language. 

"  Good,"  said  Harrington.     "  Now  row  me  in." 

They  bent  to  the  oars  in  silence,  and  with  one  stroke  the 
boat  shot  in  five  yards,  and  with  a  vigorous  leap  from  the 
prow,  Harrington  sprang  the  other  five,  landed  safely,  and 
ran  swiftly  up  the  acclivity.  The  lightning  blazed  as  he 
reached  the  summit,  and  they  saw  him  sink  down.  The  next 
instant  the  darkness  fell  with  a  peal  of  thunder,  and  he  had 
vanished.  So  thick  was  the  night,  that  he  could  not  be  seen 
after  the  lightning  failed. 


HARRINGTON.  509 

IJeft  to  himself,  Harrington,  with  his  body  bent  low,  ran 
swiftly  over  the  wet,  coarse  grass,  past  the  dark  bulk  of  the 
silent  house,  in  the  outbuilding  of  which  a  dim  lamp  glimmered, 
and  toward  the  wooden  pier.  The  lightning  blazed  rosy- 
purple  as  he  was  midway,  and  fearful  of  being  seen,  he 
dropped  prone.  The  next  instant  he  rose  in  darkness,  and 
ran  on.  Presently  he  approached  the  pier,  and  dropping  on 
his  hands  and  knees,  he  crept  down  to  it,  and  vaguely  saw 
the  two  boats,  schooner-rigged,  and  both  secured  to  the  wharf 
at  the  foot  of  a  short  ladder  running  down  to  the  water. 
Sinking  still  lower,  he  crept  to  the  edge  of  the  wharf,  lay  flat, 
and  gazed  at  the  boats,  through  the  dense  darkness,  with 
straining  eyes.  In  a  moment  the  lightning  flashed  again,  and 
he  saw  a  single  man  standing  in  one  of  the  vessels,  looking  out 
to  sea,  with  his  back  to  him,  and  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of 
a  sou'wester.  At  a  glance,  Harrington  knew,  by  the  look  of 
his  figure,  that  he  was  a  sailor,  and  overjoyed  that  he  had 
but  one  to  deal  with,  he  instantly  rose,  drew  his  pistol  from 
his  breast,  put  on  his  hat,  and  with  a  noiseless  step  glided 
down  the  pier  to  the  ladder. 

The  man  turned  just  as  ,  he  was  within  two  or  three'  yards 
of  it,  and  saw  him. 

"  Oh,  it's  one  o'  ye  at  last,"  he  growled,  mistaking  him  for 
a  comrade.  "  Egod,  it's  about  time  for  some  o'  ye  to  bear  a 
hand  in  this  dog's  watch  I've  had  of  it." 

Harrington's  answer  was  to  swing  himself  from  the  top  of 
the  ladder  into  the  boat,  which  rocked  beneath  him.  At  that 
instant  the  lightning  shook  out  in  vivid  rose  and  purple,  illu 
minating  his  stern  bearded  face  and  stalwart  form,  and  the 
man,  burly  fellow  though  he  was,  started  violently. 

"  Who  are  you  ?     What  d'ye  want  here  ?"  he  demanded. 

"  I  want  that  negro  in  the  cuddy.  Hurry  I"  said  Harring 
ton,  abruptly. 

The  man  clapped  his  hand  to  his  waist  for  his  knife. 
Harrington  clutched  his  throat,  and  held  the  pistol  to  his 
temple. 

"  Take  your  hand  from  that  knife  or  I'll  shoot  you,"  he  said, 
sternly. 


510  HAEEINGTON. 

Aghast  at  the  terrible  gripe  on  his  throat,  and  the  touch 
of  the  cold  pistol-barrel  on  his  brow,  the  man  let  his  hand 
drop,  and  would  have  sunk  upon  his  knees  only  that  Har 
rington  upheld  him. 

"  Mercy  1"  he  gasped. 

"  Stand  up,"  said  Harrington,  releasing  him. 

The  man  stood  up  with  shaking  knees,  trembling  with  terror. 

"  Go  forward  and  take  that  negro  from  the  cuddy,"  ordered 
Harrington. 

The  man  paused  an  instant,  then  went  forward,  followed  by 
Harrington,  and  sprang  for  the  ladder.  But  the  long  arm 
clutched  him  by  the  throat,  and  again  the  terrified  wretch 
felt  the  pistol-barrel  on  his  brow. 

"Attempt  that  again  and  you  die,"  said  Harrington. 
"  Now  take  out  the  negro.  Quick  !" 

Shaking  with  affright,  the  man  stooped,  opened  the  cuddy 
doors,  and  dragged  out  Antony,  feet  bound  together,  and 
arms  lashed  above  the  elbows  to  his  side. 

"  Oh,  Marster  Harrington,"  cried  the  delighted  fugitive  ; 
"  oh,  I  knowed  you  was  coinin'  right  along.  Never  guv  it 
up,  Marster  Harrington." 

"  Silence,  Antony,"  said  his  savior.  "  Take  your  knife  and 
cut  those  cords,"  he  added,  to  the  other. 

The  man  instantly  obeyed,  and  the  fugitive  scrambled  to  his 
feet.  The  lightning  blazed,  and  showed  his  lank  figure,  and 
his  skull-like  face  wildly  lighted  with  joy. 

"  Put  up  your  knife,  and  sit  down  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat 
where  you  are,"  said  Harrington  to  the  man. 

The  man  obeyed  without  a  moment's  hesitation.  He  was 
almost  frightened  out  of  his  wits  by  this  terrible  armed  appa 
rition. 

"  Now,  Antony,  can  you  walk  ?"  asked  Harrington. 

"  Yes,  Marster  ;  fus'rate,"  returned  the  fugitive,  with  a 
ghostly  caper,  which  proved  that  the  ropes  on  his  ankles,  and 
his  cramped  position  in  the  cuddy,  had  not  materially  im 
paired  his  circulation. 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Harrington.  "  Now  go  up  that  lad 
der,  and  wait  on  the  wharf  till  I  come  to  you." 


HARRINGTON.  oil 

The  man  groaned,  but  Antony,  with  a  chuckle,  instantly 
grasped  the  steps,  crept  up  the  ladder,  and  stood  on  the  pier. 

"  Now/'  said  Harrington,  turning  to  the  squatting  wretch, 
"  you  follow  him." 

The  man  rose,  trembling,  and  began  to  ascend,  but  he  had 
only  gone  three  steps  when  he  felt  the  vice-like  hand  gripe  his 
leg. 

"  Turn  round  and  sit  down  on  the  ladder,"  said  Harrington, 
standing  on  the  deck  of  the  cuddy. 

The  man  obeyed,  and  in  the  flash  of  purple  lightning  that 
came  at  that  instant,  sat  livid,  with  glaring  eyes,  palsied  with 
terror. 

Harrington  stuck  his  pistol  between  the  buttoned  lapels 
of  his  coat,  clutched  the  man's  thigh  with  one  hand,  thus  pin 
ning  him  to  the  seat,  and  held  out  the  other  hand  to  him. 

"  Give  me  your  knife,"  he  said,  imperatively. 

"  You're  not  going  to  murder  me,"  gasped  the  sailor. 

"  No,"  said  Harrington,  curtly. 

The  man  panted  hard,  and  gave  him  the  knife.  Still  hold 
ing  him  by  the  thigh,  Harrington  grasped  the  ladder  with  the 
hand  in  which  he  held  the  knife,  put  one  foot  on  the  lower 
step,  drew  the  boat  round  broadside  to  with  the  other,  and 
bore  heavily  on  the  gunnel. 

"  What  are  ye  doin'  ?"  stammered  the  sailor.  "  She's  takin' 
in  water  with  your  bearin'  on  her." 

"  I  am  capsizing  your  boat  so  that  you  can't  follow  me," 
coolly  replied  Harrington,  amidst  the  gurgling  rush  of  the  wa 
ter  with  which  the  boat  was  nearly  full. 

The  man  stared,  breathing  hard  and  trembling.  Presently 
the  boat  toppled  softly  and  slowly  over  and  her  masts  splashed 
on  the  water.  Harrington  at  once  cut  the  rope  which  secured 
her,  and  she  began  to  recede  on  the  weltering  swells. 

Changing  his  position,  Harrington  put  out  his  foot  and 
drawing  the  other  boat  to  him,  began  to  press  on  the  gunnel. 

"  You're  not  goin'  to  capsize  that  boat,  too,"  gasped  the 
man. 

Harrington  did  not  answer,  but  bore  down  heavily,  and  the 
boat  filled  and  toppled  down  with  a  splash.  As  it  went  over, 


512  HARRINGTON. 

the  man  gave  a  smothered  yell,  frantically  dashed  both  hands 
on  his  tarpaulin,  and  with  a  sudden  desperate  effort  tore  him 
self  free  from  the  gripe  which  held  him,  scrambled  up  the  lad 
der,  and  with  loud  shouts  ran  madly  for  the  house. 

Harrington  nearly  fell  from  his  hold  into  the  water,  and  in 
the  endeavor  to  save  himself,  his  pistol  dropped  from  the  lap- 
pel  and  was  gone.  Recovering,  he  cut  the  rope  which  secured 
the  capsized  boat  to  the  pier,  and  in  his  haste  thoughtlessly 
flinging  away  the  knife,  sprang  up  the  ladder. 

"  Quick  Antony,"  he  cried,  "  fly,  for  they'll  be  after  us." 

They  rushed  together  up  the  pier,  and  fled  past  the  house, 
just  as  the  entire  gang  poured  from  the  outbuilding.  At  that 
moment  the  vivid  lightning  blazed  broad,  and  the  wild  yells 
and  the  sudden  furious  thudding  of  feet  behind  them  told 
them  that  they  were  seen. 

"  Run,  Antony,  run  for  your  life  !"  cried  Harrington. 

Spurred  by  his  fear  of  being  retaken,  the  fugitive  ran  by 
Harrington's  side  as  fast  as  he  did.  Had  he  fallen  behind,  the 
young  man  would  instantly  have  caught  him  up,  and  ran  with 
him,  but  he  did  not.  Together  they  reached  the  steep  sloping 
edge  of  the  island  and  plunged  furiously  down.  But  to  the 
sudden  horror  of  Harrington,  Antony,  impelled  by  some 
strange  confusion  of  fear,  instead  of  heading  down  with  him  to 
the  left  toward  the  boat,  swerved  in  his  descent  obliquely 
away  to  the  right  and  sped  at  a  frantic  pace  in  that  direction 
toward  the  water.  It  was  a  moment  before  Harrington  could 
stop  in  his  headlong  velocity,  wheel,  and  rush  after  him,  and 
in  that  moment  Antony  got  the  start  of  him  at  least  thirty 
yards,  and  ran  like  a  race-horse.  Flying  after  him,  Harring 
ton  heard  the  feet  of  the  pursuers  tearing  down  the  slope, 
and  close  behind.  Suddenly  down  went  Antony  on  the 
large  pebbles  close  to  the  edge  of  the  water.  The  next 
instant  Harrington  reached  him,  turned,  and  through  -the  dark 
ness  saw  his  enemies  coming  fast,  and  not  more  than  forty 
yards  distant.  With  one  rapid  glance  to  the  right,  he  looked 
through  the  thick  darkness  for  the  boat,  saw  it  not,  and  knew 
that  the  battle  was  now  with  him,  and  with  him  alone. 

"  Lie  still,  Antony  ;  don't  move,"  he  cried,  stepping  close  to 


HARRINGTON.  .  513 

the  prone  body  and  standing  with  his  back  to  the  sea,  like  a 
lion  at  bay. 

They  were  coming.  Had  it  been,  not  on  those  loose  stones, 
or  in  the  night,  but  in  broad  daylight  or  on  a  fair  field,  not 
those  seven,'  no,  nor  twice  their  number,  could  have  stood  un- 
vanquished  before  that  agile  vigor,  that  dauntless  spirit  of 
assault,  that  roused  and  terrible  magnetic  front  of  war.  For 
this  was  one  of  those  rare  men  whose  presence  in  a  battle  is 
worth  a  thousand  brands,  and  who  carry  death  in  their  arm, 
and  victory  in  their  eye.  This  was  the  Cid  Eodrigo  Diaz,  at 
the  wind  of  whose  sword-sweep  ranks  fled  and  fell.  This  was 
Roland,  storm  of  dread  with  the  pine-branch  in  his  grasp 
among  the  cloven  swarms  at  Ronceval.  This  was  Tancred, 
arm  of  fate  among  a  thousand  foes  at  Dosylseum.  This  was 
Gaston  when  with  forty  knights  at  his  back  he  drove  before 
him  one  hundred  thousand  weaponed  Jacquerie.  All  that 
ever  Paladin  did  in  blazing  powess  was  in  him  to  do.  But 
there,  on  the  brink  of  the  salt  flood,  unarmed,  in  the  murk 
night,  on  the  rough  ground,  with  seven  knived  hands  to  con 
quer — oh,  hopeless  hour  of  doom  and  ruin ! — oh,  forlorn  death- 
grapple  of  the  brave ! 

They  came  in  a  body — they  spread  from  right  to  left  in  an 
arc  of  murder — they  poised  for  the  simultaneous  rush — he 
swayed  back  for  the  cleaving  spring.  But  at  that  instant, 
with  a  tremendous  staggering  clap  of  thunder,  which  rent  the 
sky  with  fifty  glittering  cracks  of  fire,  and  stunned  them  all, 
the  whole  heaven,  deep  and  vast  and  broad,  and  earth  and 
air  and  sea,  upburst  in  a  long  and  lingering  rosy  flood  of  liv 
ing  flame.  In  that  instant,  as  in  a  magic  dream,  he  saw  the 
boat  far  down  the  beach,  rise  with  a  peal  of  cries  and  a  silent 
lift  of  oars,  and  shoot  in  silence  to  the  shore — he  saw  the 
great  sea  sink  and  swell  in  vast  and  weltering  lustrous  shadow 
— he  saw  the  seven  assassins  standing  crouched  with  gleaming 
knives  around  him — he  saw  the  deep  heavens  open  up  in  rosy 
light  to  God.  The  next  instant  the  darkness  fell  like  the 
shutting  of  an  eye ;  a  surge  of  strength  rushed  like  the  blood 
of  the  whole  race  to  his  heart — and  with  a  terrific  bound  he 
fell  upon  his  foes. 

22* 


HAARJNfiTON. 

Brief  and  awful  was  that  battle.  At  the  first  leap  he  went 
through  them  like  a  thunderbolt,  and  two  went  down  crashing 
senseless  on  tlie  pebbles.  Turning  with  a  flying  spring,  he 
charged  them  as  they  huddled  in  a  fierce  knot  of  five,  and  dead 
thumped  the  sluff  of  the  French  kick,  and  the  thud  of  the  Eng 
lish  blow.  It  was  not  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  minute  in 
which  he  raged  among  their  astounded  junto,  bnt  in  that 
quarter  of  a  minute  something  like  a  sense  that  this  was  a, 
statue  of  solid  iron,  preternaturally  endowed  with  animate  life, 
and  flying  among  them  with  limbs  of  agile  destruction,  burst 
through  their  terrified  souls.  Down  they  went  in  swift  succes 
sion,  kicked  and  dashed  and  whirled  hither  and  thither  in 
crashing  overthrow,  and  not  a  man  rose  more  than  to  crawl, 
after  he  once  fell.  The  last  of  the  seven  was  a  brawny  wretch, 
who  made  a  headlong  rush  and  found  no  man  in  the  place 
where  there  was  one  a  second  before,  but  instead  two  crushing 
hands  that  jarred  the  marrow  in  his  bones  as  they  fell  from 
behind  around  his  bull  neck,  and  swung  him  off  his  feet  to  dash 
him  howling  a  dozen  paces  distant  on  the  rocky  strand.  Not 
more  than  a  quarter  of  a  minute,  and  at  the  tail  of  it  came 
Bagasse  with  cries  of  fury,  and  the  leaps  of  a  Zouave,  brand 
ishing  his  cavalry  sabre  ;  and  fast  behind  him  Wentworth, 
springing  like  a  panther,  with  a  pistol  in  each  hand  ;  and 
behind  him  the  Captain,  with  his  loaden  stave.  But  the  field 
was  won  !  Groans  and  curses  of  anguish  resounding  from  it 
in  all  directions.  One  bruised  assassin  feebly  tottering  away 
from  it  through  the  darkness  ;  three  more  weakly  crawling 
over  the  stones  on  their  hands  and  knees  ;  and  the  other  three 
lying  half  senseless  where  the  mighty  limbs  of  Harrington  had 
hurled  them. 

Yes,  the  field  was  won,  but  after  the  battle  there  was  going 
to  be  massacre.  For  the  fierce  Celtic  blood  of  Bagasse 
was  up,  and  standing  only  for  an  instant,  he  swung  up  his 
sabre  and  dashed  with  a  yell  upon  a  wretch  who  was  essaying 
to  rise.  Harrington  sprang  and  caught  him  by  the 
wrist. 

"  No,  Bagasse,"  he  cried.  "  Spare  them.  They  are  hurt 
enough  already.-' 


HARRINGTON.  515 

Bagasse  stood  for  an  instant,  panting,  then  turned  sullenly 
away. 

At  that  moment  the  Captain,  who  had  stood  looking  in 
blank  stupefaction  on  the  prostrate  bodies,  burst  into  screams 
of  eldritch  merriment,  brandishing  his  stave,  and  capering  like 
mad. 

Wentworth,  meanwhile,  was  hugging  the  panting  Harring 
ton,  almost  wild  with  exulting  joy. 

"  By  all  the  gods  I"  he  shouted,  bursting  away  and  roaring 
with  laughter,  "  was  there  ever  the  like  of  this  !  Seven  to 
one,  and  he  flogs  the  life  out  of  them  !  Oh,  Froissart,  where 
are  you  !  Sieur  Jehan  Froissart,  why  did  you  die  I  Come 
back,  you  old  clerk  of  chivalry,  and  write  it  down  !  Seven  to 
one,  and  there  they  lie  !"  And  Wentworth  bent  himself 
double  in  a  fresh  convulsion  of  merriment. 

"  He  fit  'em,"  hooted  the  Captain,  prancing  deliriously,  "  he 
fit  'em  all.  Glory  hallelujah,  world  without  end,  amen." 
And  with  a  halloo,  he  subsided,  and  walked  from  body  to 
body,  bending  curiously  over  each,  and  dropping  cheerful  sug 
gestions  to  the  sufferers,  as  to  the  sort  of  medical  treatment 
they  would  better  employ. 

"  Bagasse,"  panted  Harrington,  grasping  the  Frenchman's 
hand,  "  I  owe  you  this  victory.  Your  training  stood  me  in 
good  stead  with  these  fellows." 

"  Ah,  Missr  Harrington,"  returned  Bagasse,  tapping  him 
on  the  chest  with  the  hilt  of  the  sabre,  "you  do  me  mush 
credit.  Zat  was  done  vair  brown." 

"  I'll  bet  it  was,"  corroborated  Wentworth.  "  They'll 
remember  it  to  their  graves,  the  cowardly  ruffians.  Had  they 
knives  ?  They  had,  eh  ?"  he  continued,  as  Harrington  bent 
his  head  in  assent.  "  But  why  didn't  you  shoot  them  ?" 

"  I  lost  my  pistol,"  replied  Harrington,  breathing  hard. 

"  And  fought  them  bare-handed,"  said  Wentworth.  "  You 
infernal  dastards,"  he  roared,  turning  toward  the  crawling 
wretches,  "  you  deserve  to  be  slaughtered,  every  hound  of  you. 
Yes,  crawl  on7,  you  jackals  of  slavery.  Curse  you  !  I  hate 
you." 

"  Richard,  Richard,"  said  Harrington,  feebly,  "  don't  talk 


516  HARRINGTON. 

so.  It's  enough  to  have  half-killed  the  poor  fellows,  without 
abusing  them.  Heaven  knows  I  wouldn't  have  harmed  them 
if  it  hadn't  been  necessary.  But  let  us  not  stain  victory  with 
insulting  them  in  their  misery." 

"  Insulting  them  !"  snapped  Wentworth.  "  Come,  I  like 
that.  Insulting  kidnappers  I  By  Jove,  it's  not  possible  ! 
Suppose  they  had  killed  you.  I  swear,  Harrington,  it  was  the 
merest  chance  that  we  came — though,  to  be  sure,  our  coming 
was  coming  too  late.  We  heard  the  running  and  shouting, 
and  didn't  dare  to  leave  the  boat  till  we  knew  what  it  meant, 
and  where  you  were.  But  if  I'd  only  heard  your  pistol,  I  tell 
you  I'd  have  been  on  shore,  orders  or  no  orders.  Then  the 
next  thing,  we  saw  you  in  the  flash,  with  the  scoundrels 
around  you,  and  we  put  for  the  spot  at  once.  The  infernal 
ruffians  1" 

"Come,  come,"  murmured  Harrington,  ending  this  hasty 
colloquy,  which  had  not  occupied  more  than  three  or  four 
minutes,  "let's  be  off.  I  am  breathed  a  little,  and  I  feel 
exhausted,  and  want  to  lie  down." 

"  But  where's  Antony  ?"  said  Wentworth. 

"  Oh,  here  he  is,"  replied  Harrington,  turning  to  the  fugi 
tive,  who  in  blind  obedience  to  his  unrevoked  command,  still 
lay  upon  the  stones  near  the  sea.  "  Get  up,  Antony.  You're 
safe  forever,  I  hope,  poor  fellow." 

The  fugitive  instantly  rose,  and  followed  the  little  party 
over  the  shingle,  delightedly  sniffing  in  the  salt  air. 

"  There's  no  possibility  of  those  wretches  following  us  in 
the  condition  they're  in,  and  that's  a  comfort,"  said  Went 
worth. 

"None,  whatever,"  replied  Harrington,  in  an  exhausted 
voice.  "  Besides,  I  capsized  all  the  boats  on  the  island." 

"  By  Jupiter  1"  exclaimed  Wentworth.  "  Bagasse — Cap 
tain — do  you  hear  that  ?  He  has  capsized  all  the  boats  on  the 
island  I  Oh,  well,  there's  no  use  in  saying  another  word,  for 
of  all  the  trumps  in  this  world  you're  the  trumpiest,  Har 
rington  !" 

Bagasse  and  the  Captain  joined  in  with  excited  questions  as 
to  how  he  did  it,  and  Harrington  gave  them  a  hasty  account 


HARRINGTON.  517 

of  the  whole  procedure  as  they  went  together  along  the  shin 
gle.  Soon  amidst  great  hilarity  they  reached  the  Polly  Ann, 
lying  bound  to  the  rocks  by  a  grapnel,  which  the  Captain  had 
flung  as  he  rushed  from  her  to  Harrington's  rescue.  Antony 
got  in  first  and  squatted  down  forward  on  the  deck  of  the 
cuddy,  then  the  others,  and  last  Harrington,  who  went  aft  to 
the  tiller  and  sat  down.  For  a  minute  all  was  activity,  then 
amidst  the  clank  and  rattle  of  hoops  and  halyards  up  went 
the  mainsail  and  jib,  the  reefing  nettles  were  unclewed,  the 
canvas  filled  languidly,  and  the  boat  moved  away  from  the 
shore  with  a  faint  brattle  over  the  dark,  lifting  swells. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

/ 

PALLIDA  MORS. 

FOR  a  few  minutes  they  all  sat  in  silence,  all  but  Harring 
ton  flushed  and  throbbing  with  the  excitement  of  the  adven 
ture,  and  joyous  with  their  success.  The  storm  had  broken 
with  that  last  thunder-clap,  the  clouds  were  rolling  away,  and 
already  the  moon  appeared  in  the  west  in  a  clear  sky,  and 
threw  its  still  lustre  upon  the  drowsy  mass  of  the  far  distant 
city,  with  its  dim  multitude  of  spars,  and  over  the  vast  and 
wild  expanse  of  lifting  and  falling  water  which  filled  all  the 
open  void  with  its  invigorating  odor.  Low  in  the  east  the 
golden  lightnings  flashed  fitfully,  lighting  up  fairy  grottoes  in 
the  sullen  clouds,  and  overhead  the  stars  bloomed  large  and 
lambent  through  braided  shadows,  which  were  rapidly  fleeting 
away.  Far  in  the  distance  over  the  flood,  the  red  revolving 
beacon  glowed  a  steady  ruby,  and  failed,  and  glowed  again. 
But  the  wind  had  almost  died  from  the  magic  night,  and 
hardly  bellied  the  sails  as  it  flowed  gently  from  the  slumbrous 
west,  and  the  boat,  gliding  with  a  faint  wash  and  ripple 
through  the  swells,  went  but  slowly. 


518  HARRINGTON. 

"  We  shall  have  a  long  voyage  tacking  up  to  South  Boston 
at  this  rate,"  murmured  Wentworth. 

The  Captain  grunted  assent,  and  for  a  few  minutes  they  all 
were  silent. 

"How  white  you  look,  Harrington,"  said  Wentworth 
again,  looking  at  the  noble,  straight-featured  face  of  his 
friend,  as  he  sat,  bare-headed,  leaning  against  the  stern  grasp 
ing  the  tiller,  with  the  moonlight  resting  on  his  pallid  coun 
tenance. 

Harrington  did  not  answer  for  a  minute,  but  sat  looking  at 
them  with  still  eyes. 

"  Friends,"  said  he  at  length,  in  a  sweet  and  hollow  voice, 
"  come  here  to  me.  I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

A  little  startled  at  his  tone  and  manner,  they  rose  and  sat 
near  him. 

"  Promise  me  that  you  will  not  let  Antony  know  what  I 
am  going  to  tell  you,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  want  to  grieve  the 
poor  creature,  and  besides,  it  is  necessary  to  the  preservation 
of  our  secret.  I  do  not  know  whether  the  secret  can  be  pre 
served  now,  but  it  is  possible,  and  we  must  try.  But  promise 
me  that  you  will  not  tell  Antony." 

"Why,  certainly,  we  will  not,"  returned  Wentworth, 
vacantly.  "  What  is  it  ?" 

"  When  we  get  back,  Richard,"  pursued  his  friend,  "  you 
must  take  Antony  up  at  once  to  Charles's  room :  then,  in  the 
morning,  take  him  in  to  his  brother,  and  tell  Roux  what  has 
happened  to  him,  and  why  you  concealed  it  from  him,  charg 
ing  him,  at  the  same  time,  to  say  nothing  to  anybody  of  this 
matter.  Then  you  must  take  both  of  them  to  Worcester  in 
the  first  train.  But  you  must  tell  neither  of  them  of  what  I 
am  now  going  to  tell  you.  Promise  me  all  this." 

"  I  do,"  responded  Wentworth,  tranced  with  wonder. 
"  But  what  is  it  ?" 

"  Dear  Richard,"  said  Harrington,  in  the  same  voice  of 
hollow  sweetness — "  dear  friends  all,  I  am  going  to  leave  you." 

They  gazed  at  him. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  faltered  Wentworth,  in  a  hushed 
voice. 


HARRINGTON.  519 

4*  Look,"  murmured  Harrington. 

They  stared  aghast  at  the  hand  ne  held  out  to  them.     The 
tips  of  the  fingers  were  red  with  blood. 

A  slow  horror  sank  upon  them  with  an  icy  chill,  and  the 
hair  of  the  three  rose  as  though  they  were  one. 

"  I  am  hurt  to  the  life,"  said  Harrington.     "  Here." 

He  laid  the  bloody  hand  upon  his  left  side  just  over  the 
heart,  as  he  uttered  the  last  word." 

Bagasse  fell  upon  his  knees  before  him  with  a  yell,  and  flung 
open  the  coat  and  vest,  which  were  unbuttoned,  while  Went- 
worth  and  the  Captain  burst  into  tears.  There  was  a  little 
blood  on  the  white  shirt — very  little.  Bagasse  stared  at  it  for 
an  instant,  with  a  look  of  livid  horror.  Then,  with  a  fierce  and 
sudden  motion,  he  rent  the  shirt  in  two,  put  in  his  hand  to  the 
slit  of  the  undershirt,  tore  it  down,  and  pulling  the  clothea 
asunder  with  both  hands,  gazed.  A  little  blot  of  thin  red  on 
the  silver  skin — in  the  centre  a  short  dark  line — a  little  red 
blood  thinly  oozing  from  it.  They  all  gazed  upon  the  wound. 

"  He  is  stab,"  said  Bagasse,  in  a  low,  hoarse  voice  of  heart 
breaking  pathos.  "  He  is  stab,  and  he  bleed  inside  him.  Ah, 
my  fren7  is  stab,  and  he  die,  die,  die.  Oh  my  old,  old  vair  seek 
heart,  what  will  I  do  wis  you  ?  My  fren',  Missr  Harrin'ton,  so 
good,  so  kind,  so  brave,  so  tendair  as  ze  woman,  zat  nurse  me 
like  ze  littel  babe  in  my  seekness,  zat  come  to  me  when  evairy 
ozzer  one  stay  off,  zat  look  at  me  and  1  was  glad,  zat  take  my 
hand  and  I  was  glad,  zat  make  my  old  life  glad  wis  ze  lof  of 
him,  he  is  go  away  out  of  zis  dam  world  to  die,  die,  die.  Oh, 
miseree,  miseree  1" 

"  Hush,  hush,  Bagasse  I"  faltered  Harrington,  hardly  able 
to  speak  for  emotion.  "  Hush,  old  friend.  We  must  all  die 
sometime.  Don't  grieve.  There,  there.  It  will  soon  be  over. 
Richard,  dear  Richard,  don't  weep  so.  Captain,  friend,  father, 
do  not  break  my  heart.  Come,  come,  bear  up,  bear  up." 

"Oh,  Harrington,"  sobbed  Wentworth,  throwing  himself 
upon  his  breast,  "  what  will  life  be  to  me  if  you  die  !  And 
Muriel — my  God,  this  will  kill  her  1  To  lose  you  in  this  way, 
three  days  after  her  wedding.  She  never  can  survive  it." 

"No,  Richard,"  said  Harrington,  calmly.     "Muriel  will 


520  HARRINGTON. 

bear  her  loss  with  a  brave  heart.  Both  she  and  I  knew  that 
we  were  not  to  meet  again  when  I  parted  from,  her  to-night. 
We  had  spiritual  warning  of  this." 

"  You  had  spiritual  warning  of  this  ?"  said  Wentworth, 
awed  from  his  wild  grief  into  calm. 

"Yes,"  murmured  Harrington,  "in  presentments  and  in 
dreams.  Both  of  us.  We  were  both  prepared  for  it.  I  came 
here  expecting  to  die,  and  I  was  surprised  when  the  conflict 
was  over  to  find  myself,  as  I  believed,  unharmed.  I  felt 
strangely  weak,  but  I  thought  it  the  exhaustion  of  excitement, 
and  it  was  not  till  I  entered  the  boat  that  I  became  conscious 
of  a  heavy  feeling  and  a  little  smarting  in  my  breast,  and  dis 
covered  that  I  was  stabbed." 

"  Haven't  ye  no  idee  when  it  was  done,  John  ?"  gasped  the 
Captain,  weeping. 

"  Not  the  least,"  replied  Harrington,  hollowly.  "  I  was  not 
aware  that  any  of  the  men  touched  me  during  the  whole  fray." 

Bagasse  rose  from  his  knees,  and  turning  away,  stood  in  a 
stupor  of  despair,  with  his  head  bent  upon  his  chest  and  his 
arms  tightly  folded. 

"  Oh,  Harrington,  Harrington  !"  cried  Wentworth,  "  how 
could  you  go  on  this  accursed  enterprise !  How  could  you 
leave  Muriel,  loving  her  so  much,  when  you  knew  that 
you  were  to  die !  Your  love  for  her  should  have  kept 
you" 

"  No,  Richard,"  interrupted  Harrington,  in  his  sweet,  faint 
tones.  "  My  love  for  her  sent  me.  I  could  not  love  her  so 
much  if  I  did  not  love  mankind  more.  No — I  might  well 
doubt  the  worth  and  truth  of  my  love  for  Muriel  if  it  made  me 
unwilling  to  lose  my  life  for  the  rights  of  the  humblest  slave." 

Wentworth  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  Dying,  dying  before  our  eyes,"  he  wailed,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  Oh,  it  cannot  be.  Bagasse,  is  there  no  hope  ?  The  wound 
does  not  bleed  much." 

Bagasse  shook  his  head. 

"  I  haf  see  many  wound,  Missr  Wentwort',"  he  sombrely 
replied.  "  Nevair  one  in  zat  place  where  ze  man  will  not  die. 
He  bleed  inside  him." 


HARRINGTON.  521 

"  Bleeding  internally,"  gasped  Wentworth,  wringing  his 
hands.  "  Oh,  if  we  could  only  get  home  to  a  physician.  No 
wind — the  boat  dawdling  along — and  he  dying  !  Look  here, 
Captain,  down  with  the  sails,  and  let's  row.  We  must  go 
faster  than  this. 

Captain  Fisher  rose  quickly,  and  as  he  did  so,  Bagasse  sud 
denly  caught  up  his  sabre  and  faced  him. 

"  See,  Capitaine  Fisser,"  he  howled  hoarsely,  "  you  turn  ze 
boat  to  zat  dam  island.  You  let  me  go  zere  after  zose  rascail 
for  my  revenge.  Zey  haf  kill  ze  man  I  lof— zey  haf  kill  me 
— zey  have  kill  ze  whole  world,  when  zey  kill  ze  man  zat  haf 
lof  in  his  heart  for  evairybody.  Now  I  kill  zein.  See,  Missr 
Harrin'ton  will  die.  Ze  doctair  haf  not  skill  to  make  him  well 
— no  nevair.  Good  :  you  let  me  go  for  zose  murdair  devail, 
and  chop  zem  into  small  fragment  wis  my  sabre.  You  give6 
me  zat  sweet  revenge,  zen  I  go  home  and  cry  wis  my  old  eye 
into  my  grave.  You  do  zat  now.'7 

"  Bagasse,"  said  the  hollow  voice  of  Harrington,  "  that 
must  not  be.  'If  you  love  me,  do  not  think  of  harming  those 
men.  No,  let  us  go  on.  I  want  to  get  home.  I  am  dying 
slowly,  but  I  hope  to  live  till  I  get  home." 

Bagasse  lifted  his  knee,  snapped  the  sabre  in  two  across  it, 
and  flung  the  pieces  into  the  sea. 

"  I  nevair  fight  nobody  no  more,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "  I  haf 
not  zat  revenge,  and  I  care  for  nossing.  Zey  do  to  me 
evairy  insult — zey  keek  me,  zey  jump  on  me,  zey  roll  me  in  ze 
mud,  I  will  not  fight  zem,  for  I  haf  not  my  revenge." 

"  Come,  Captain,"  cried  Wentworth,  "  let's  settle  away  the 
sails,  and  out  with  the  oars." 

He  flew  to  the  jib  halyards,  and  the  Captain  to  the  main 
sail.  In  a  minute,  both  sails  were  clewed  down,  and  the  main 
sail  boom  lashed  one  side  to  the  cleat.  Wentworth  and  the 
Captain,  followed  bv  Bagasse,  threw  off  coats  and  waistcoats, 
and  seized  the  oars.  The  Captain  drew  up  the  sliding-keel, 
and  took  the  stroke-oars.  Bagasse  and  Wentworth  had  the 
other  two.  In  a  moment  the  blades  fell,  and  the  boat  foamed 
through  the  moonlit  swells. 

Of  all  this  colloquy,  conducted  for  the  most  part  in  low 


522 


HARRINGTON. 


voices,  Antony,  perched  upon  the  cuddy-deck,  and  hid  from 
sight  by  the  mainsail,  heard  little  or  nothing,  an<^  had  no  idea 
that  Harrington  was  in  any  way  injured.  Now  that  the  sail 
was  down,  Harrington  saw  him,  and  beckoned  him  aft.  He 
came  instantly,  grotesquely  sidling  between  the  two  front  row 
ers,  and  skipping  over  Captain  Fisher's  oars,  looking,  with  the 
gleam  of  the  moonlight  on  his  dark,  skull-like  face,  something 
as  he  did  on  the  night  when  Harrington  found  him. 

"  Sit  down  here  by  me,  Antony,"  said  the  young  man,  in  his 
sweet,  feeble  voice. 

Antony  squatted  beside  him,  and  Harrington  put  his  left 
arm  around  his  shoulder,  feeling,  in  his  dying  hours,  a  mild  and 
compassionate  affection  for  the  poor  creature  for  whom  he  had 
laid  down  his  life. 

1  For  a  little  while  there  was  silence,  broken  only  by  the  regu 
lar  roll  of  the  oars  in  the  rowlocks,  the  plash  and  dip  of  the 
blades,  and  the  steady,  seething,  effervescing  sound  of  the 
water  foaming  from  the  bows  and  stern  of  the  boat  as  she  shot 
through  the  lifting  flood.  The  clouds  had  railed  down  the 
east,  and  Harrington  sat  weak  and  suffering,  with  his  white 
and  beautiful  face  upturned  to  the  millioned  host  of  lambent 
stars — a  solemn  and  tremendous  glory  of  golden  rain  that 
seemed  descending  slowly  under  the  frosted  nebulae  and  vaulted 
blue. 

Soon  his  face  drooped  from  the  midnight  sky,  and  he  smiled 
palely  on  the  fugitive,  who  was  wistfully  looking  at  him. 

"  How  do  you  feel,  Antony  ?"  said  the  hollow  and  gentle 
voice. 

"Fus*  rate,  Marster  Harrin' ton.  Right  glad  to  git  away 
from  them  soul-drivers,  Marster.  Hope  you'll  scuse  me,  Mars- 
ter  Harrin'ton,  for  goin'  out  that  Sunday,  an'  givin'  you  such 
a  heap  o'  trouble,  Marster.  I  aint  wuth  much  trouble, 
Marster." 

"  Did  you  think  I  would  find  you  again*  Antony  ?" 

"  Yes,  Marster." 

"  What  made  you  think  so  ?" 

"Thought  you'd  git  it  out  o'  some  o'  them  books  in  your 
house,  Marster." 


HAERINGTON.  523 

"  You  can  read,  Antony  ?" 

"Ruther  p'orly,  Marster.  Never  had  much  chance  at 
books.  Often  felt  as  if  I'd  like  to  git  a  chance,  but  couldn't 
git  none.  Had  a  hard  tune  in  this  world,  an'  been  kep'  down 
awful,  Marster." 

Harrington  did  not  reply,  and  for  a  few  minutes  there  was 
silence. 

"  Feel  tired,  Marster  Harrin'ton  ?"  asked  Antony. 

"What  makes  you  think  so  ?"  was  the  reply. 

"  Voice  sounds  tired,  Marster.  Rather  curis  voice,  an'  not 
zactly  like  yours,  Marster.  'Spect  you  fout  them  soul-drivers 
oncommon  hard  to-night.  I'd  liked  to  fout,  too,  but  fight's  most 
out  o'  me,  Marster.  How  do  you  feel,  Marster  Harrin'ton  ?" 

"  Are  you  ever  ashamed  of  yourself,  Antony,  when  you 
think  of  all  you  don't  know,  and  can't  do  ?" 

"  Yes,  Marster." 

"  You  know  you  are  a  very  poor  man,  Antony." 

"  Yes,  Marster." 

"  Yery  humble,  very  low,  very  ignorant,  perhaps  wicked." 

"  Yes,  Marster." 

"  Well,  did  you  ever,  for  a  little  while  even,  feel  that  you  were 
greater  and  wiser  and  better  than  you  had  thought  you  were  ?" 

"Yes,  Marster.  Had  that  feelin'  come  over  me  once  awful. 
It  was  'long  back  when  I  was  chokin'  with  no  air,  an' 
most  gone  for  somethin'  to  eat,  lyin'  on  the  cotton  in  the  hold 
of  the  Solomon,  Marster.  Tried  to  make  a  noise  to  be  let 
out,  Marster,  and  couldn't.  Then  I  guv  up  for  good,  an'  felt 
as  if  I  was  dyin',  an'  all  on  a  sudden  like,  when  I  was  sort  o' 
sailin'  away,  that  feelin'  come  over  me  awful,  Marster. 
Oncommon  grand  feelin',  an'  I  can't  account  for  it  nohow,  but 
it  was  oncommon  grand,  Marster." 

Harrington  slowly  lifted  his  tranced  and  peaceful  face  to  the 
sky,  and  gazed  upon  the  solemn  and  awful  golden  rain  of  stars. 

"  That  is  the  way  I  feel  to-night,  Antony,"  he  said  in  his 
sweet  and  hollow  dying  voice.  "  That  was  your  true  self, 
your  soul.  That  was  God  in  you." 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"  Do  you  understand,  Antony  ?"  said  Harrington. 


524:  HARRINGTON. 

"  No,  Marster." 

"  It  will  be  made  clear  to  you,"  answered  Harrington,  after 
a  pause.  "  When  you  are  dying  it  will  begin  to  be  made 
clear  to  you.  It  will  grow  clearer  and  clearer  as  you  leave 
the  world,  and  when  you  are  dead  you  will  understand." 

The  voice  was  thrilling,  tender  and  low.  Awed  by  its  hol 
low  music,  the  fugitive  sat  silently  revolving  the  strange  words 
in  his  simple  mind.  Gradually  his  thoughts  went  from  him, 
melted  in  the  vast  peace  of  the  brooding  night,  and  soon, 
lulled  by  the  regular  sound  of  the  rowing,  he  sank  away  in  a 
sort  of  waking  doze.  Harrington  sat  motionless,  dreaming 
upon  the  stars,  his  tranquil  soul  ebbing  in  suffering  from  his 
dying  frame.  No  word  was  said — no  sound  was  heard  but 
the  regular  plash  and  drip  of  the  rolling  oars,  and  the  steady 
and  continuous  seethe  of  the  sea. 

A  long  and  weary  hour  went  by,  and  through  the  lonely 
darkness,  weirdly  lit  by  the  wan  gleam  of  the  low  crescent 
moon,  the  dark  shore  and  dim  houses  began  to  loom  over  the 
weltering  ftood.  The  rowers  redoubled  their  energy,  and  the 
boat  flew  seething  through  the  brine.  Half  an  hour  more, 
and  her  keel  grated  on  the  sand. 

Wentworth  and  Bagasse  sprang  up  hot  and  panting,  flung 
down  their  oars,  and  leaped  ashore.  The  Captain  waited  till 
they  had  seized  the  painter,  then  shipped  his  oars,  and  left  the 
boat  followed  by  Antony.  Dropping  the  painter,  and  hauling  all 
together  on  the  boat,  they  drew  it  up  high  and  dry  upon  the  sands. 

"Take  Antony  on  with  you,  Captain,"  whispered  Harrington. 

The  Captain  silently  put  on  his  clothes,  and  taking  the  fugi 
tive  by  the  arm,  led  him  up  the  dark  lane.  Bagasse  and 
Wentworth  hurriedly  resumed  their  garments,  and  assisted 
Harrington  to  rise  and  leave  the  leaning  boat.  He  was  very 
weak,  his  noble  masculine  vigor  nearly  drained  away,  but  his 
resolute  soul  still  upbore  him,  and  he  could  walk  feebly, 
though  with  heavy  and  tottering  knees.  Upheld  by  the 
strong  hold  around  him,  and  leaning  on  their  shoulders  with 
clasping  arms,  he  advanced  with  them  up  the  lane.  They 
wanted  to  carry  him,  but  not  wishing  to  let  Antony  know  his 
condition,  he  refused. 


HABRINGTON.  525 

The  cool  air  was  full  of  delicious  summer  fragrance,  as  they 
went  on  through  the  glimmering  darkness.  In  a  few  minutes 
they  heard  the  snorting  and  pawing  of  horses,  and  looking  up 
the  road,  saw  the  carriage  at  some  little  distance.  Leaving 
Harrington  to  the  charge  of  Bagasse,  Wentworth  ran  for 
ward,  told  John  Todd  to  stay  where  he  was,  and  mounting 
the  box,  turned  the  horses  and  drove  the  hack  down.  Antony 
and  the  Captain  got  in,  then  Bagasse  and  Harrington  coming 
up,  entered  also,  and  Wentworth  turning  the  horses  again 
drove  up  the  street,  stopped  for  an  instant  to  take  up  John 
Todd  on  the  box  beside  him;  and  away  they  rolled  rapidly 
over  the  smooth  road. 

It  was  then  between  two  and  three  o'clock.  Everything 
had  been  successfully  managed,  and  to  his  dying  day  John 
Todd  never  knew  who  the  occupants  of  the  carriage  were. 
Wentworth  was  taciturn,  and  after  a  few  remarks,  finding  he 
got  no  answer,  John  left  off  talking,  and  they  went  on  in  silence. 

Through  the  dark,  deserted  streets  of  South  Boston  they 
rolled  rapidly,  and  over  the  long  bridge  they  rapidly  rumbled, 
silent  within  the  carriage  and  without.  Then  over  the  rattling 
pavements  into  Dover,  and  up  Tremout  street  to  Park,  and 
into  Mount  Yernou  to  Temple,  where  Wentworth  reined  in 
the  smoking  and  pawing  horses. 

"  Get  down,  John,"  said  he,  "  wait  here  for  five  minutes, 
then  walk  down  Temple  street,  where  you'll  find  the  carriage, 
and  drive  it  back  to  the  stables.  I'll  see  you  to-morrow. 
Now  do  exactly  as  I  tell  you." 

"  Just  as  you  say,  Mr.  Wentworth,"  returned  the  boy,  get 
ting  down,  and  wondering  what  all  this  meant  anyway. 

Wentworth  at  once  drove  the  horses  down  the  declivity  of 
Temple  street,  drew  them  up  at  the  door  of  the  lighted  house, 
and  with  a  bursting  heart,  leaped  from  the  box,  and  went  up 
the  steps.  He  laid  his  hand  on  the  bell-knob  to  ring,  but 
shook  so  in  his  nerveless  agony,  that  he  had  to  pause. 

Suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  Muriel  appeared  standing 
within  the  lighted  entry,  clad  all  in  white,  calm,  beautiful  and 
radiant.  Wentworth  burst  into  tears,  and  staggering  forward, 
fell  into  her  arms. 


526  HARRINGTON. 

"Hush,  dear  Richard,"  she  said,  in  a  serene  and  tender 
voice,  "  I  know  it  all.  Be  calm,  as  I  am.  Bring  him  to  me." 

Blind  with  tears,  he  tottered  down  the  steps  to  the  carriage, 
and  threw  open  the  door. 

"  Richard,"  said  the  faint  voice  from  within,  "  take  Antony 
np  at  once." 

Antony  got  out  from  the  carriage,  wondering  why  Ms  pro 
tector  spoke  in  such  a  weak  voice,  and  followed  Wentworth  'in. 

"  Welcome  back,  Antony,"  said  Muriel,  with  a  grave  smile. 
"  Go  up  with  Mr.  Wentworth." 

She  turned  her  face  to  the  carriage,  as  the  fugitive,  cring 
ing  low,  with  his  dark,  skull-like  face  hideous  with  a  reveren 
tial  smile,  passed  her,  dragged  hastily  up-stairs  by  Wentworth. 

In  a  moment  Bagasse  sprang  from  the  carriage,  and  turn 
ing,  reached  in  for  Harrington,  who  crept  down  presently, 
supported  from  behind  by  the  Captain,  and  before  by  the 
fencing-master.  The  moment  he  touched  the  pavement,  Muriel 
flew  down  the  steps,  clasped  him  in  her  arms,  and  gazed  for 
an  instant,  with  a  pale,  bright  smile,  into  his  dying  face. 

The  two  men  gazed  at  her  for  a  moment,  their  haggard  and 
weeping  faces  stilled  with  wonder  at  her  seraphic  smile  of 
calm,  and  the  soft  vision  of  her  beauty  in  the  darkness.  Then 
starting  from  their  pause,  they  lifted  Harrington  from  his  feet, 
bore  him  up  into  the  library,  laid  him  half  reclining  on  a 
couch,  and  as  they  did  so,  she  came  quickly  with  water  and 
wine,  and  knelt  beside  him. 

Wentworth  entered  behind  them,  drenched  and  draggled 
with  the  rain  and  spray,  with  his  hair  dishevelled,  and  his  face 
livid  and  haggard  with  grief,  and  went  at  once  to  Emily,  who 
lay  on  a  couch  in  a  dead  swoon.  The  two  men  stood  forlornly 
weeping,  Bagasse  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands,  the  Cap 
tain  with  his  head  bent  on  one  side,  his  visage  white  with  dark 
circles  around  the  eyes,  and  the  tears  streaming  on  his  cheeks. 
Save  for  then*  low,  hoarse  sobs,  the  lighted  room  was  intensely 
still. 

"  Beloved  Muriel,"  murmured  Harrington,  "  I  thank  the 
kind  fate  that  suffers  me  to  see  you  again,  and  to  die  in  your 
arms." 


HARRINGTON. 


'527 


"  And  I,  my  husband,"  she  replied,  in  a  subdued  and  ten 
der  voice,  "  I  am  happier  that  it  has  been  ordered  so.  You 
return  to  me,  as  I  knew  you  would,  living  or  dead,  a  victor." 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  we  have  triumphed.  All  is  retrieved, 
and  I  can  pass  away  in  peace.  I  was  alone ;  I  lost  my  weapon, 
and  they  were  seven  to  one ;  but  I  mastered  them  all  with  only 
one  wound.  Only  one — here — but  it  is  fatal." 

She  quickly  undid  his  neckerchief  and  collar,  laid  bare  his 
massive  breast,  and  gazed  upon  the  stab.  Then  rising,  she 
went  over  to  Wentworth,  who  was  bending  over  Emily, 
she  having  just  recovered  from  her  swoon. 

"  Richard,"  said  she,  "  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  hope  for 
John,  but  it  is  best  to  call  in  Dr.  Winslow.  Will  you  go  for 
him  ?" 

Wentworth  at  once  left  the  room. 

"  Dear  Emily,  be  calm,"  said  Muriel,  gently.  "I  told  you 
of  this  beforehand,  that  you  might  be  saved  the  shock.  Try 
to  be  calm.  Try,  for  my  sake,  to  meet  this  sorrow  bravely." 

"  Oh,  Muriel,"  replied  Emily,  with  the  tears  flowing  upon 
her  blanched  and  agitated  face,  "is  he  hurt?  Don't  tell  me 
he  is  killed  I  Don't  tell  me  that  1  Where  is  he  ?  Let  me 
see  him." 

"  Come  here,  dear  Emily,"  said  Harrington,  faintly. 

Tremblingly  rising,  assisted  by  Muriel,  and  weeping  bitterly, 
she  crossed  the  floor,  supported  by  her,  and  sinking  down  by 
Harrington,  who  had  covered  his  breast,  she  laid  her  head  on 
his  shoulder,  while  he,  in  low  murmurs,  tried  to  comfort  her. 
Muriel  knelt  beside  them  with  one  arm  around  Harrington, 
and  his  hand  held  to  her  bosom.  In  a  minute  or  two  Emily 
had  stilled  her  grief,  and  nothing  was  heard  but  the  low, 
hoarse  sobs  of  the  two  men.  Watching  Harrington's  face, 
amidst  the  sobbing,  Muriel  saw  a  faint  expression  of  weary 
pain  flit  across  it.  She  instantly  rose,  and  turned  to  the  two 
mourners. 

"Mr.  Bagasse,"  said  she,  sadly  smiling,  as  she  laid  her 
hands  on  his  arm.  "  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  though  I  did  not 
think  our  first  meeting  would  be  at  such  a  time  as  this." 

He  dropped  his  hands  from  his  uncouth  and  martial  features, 


528*  HARRINGTON. 

swarthy-white  with  grief,  and.  bowed  low,  with  the  tears  run 
ning  from  his  eyes. 

"  Ah,  madame,"  he  faltered,  hoarsely,  "  ze  honor  and  ze 
joay  I  haf  to  see  ze  beautifool  ladee  wife  is  all  eovair  ovair 
wis  my  sorrow.  My  old  vair  seek  heart  is  cut  all  up  wis 
my  des-pair." 

"  Nay,  do  not  grieve  so,"  she  tenderly  replied.  "  We  shall 
all  see  the  man  we  love  again.  Ah,  Mr.  Bagasse,  you  could 
bear  to  see  men  die  for  France.  Can  you  not  bear  to  see  one 
die  for  humanity. 

"  Yes,  I  haf  see  vair  many  men  die,"  he  answered,  slowly 
moving  his  head  up  and  down.  "  I  was  conscrip'  wis  Nap-oleon. 
I  see  men  die  in  big  heap  wis  cannon  an  sabre  and  bayonet  at 
Ligny  and  Waterloo,  an'  I  bear  it.  I  see  my  two  brozzer  kill 
dead  at  Ligny,  an'  I  bear  it.  Not  Missr  Harrin'ton.  No.  I 
see  him  kill — I  see  ze  lof  of  my  heart,  so  kind,  so  good,  so 
brave,  so  tendair  wis  evairbody,  kill  by  zo.se  inurdair  devail, 
and  I  nevair  bear  it.  Ah,  madame,  nevair,  nevair  I" 

She  smiled  sadly  with  dim  eyes,  and  held  out  her  beautiful 
white  hands  to  him.  He  caught  them  quickly  in  his,  pressed 
them  to  his  lips,  and  with  a  convulsive  flush  darkly  reddening 
his  grotesque  and  martial  features,  drew  himself  up,  and  looked 
for  an  instant  at  her  solemn  festal  loveliness. 

"I  bear  it,  madame,"  he  cried  hoarsely,  with  passionate  ve 
hemence.  "  You  lof  him  so  mush,  and  you  bear  it.  You  learn 
me  zat  lesson,  and  I  will  bear  it  wis  you.  Ah,  madame,  you 
are  ze  brave,  beautifool  soldier  wife.  You  was  fit  for  his  great 
lof.  I  res-pect,  I  ad-mire,  I  wor-ship  you." 

He  dropped  her  hands,  bowed  low,  and  falling  back  a  pace, 
tightly  folded  his  arms,  and  stood  sombre  and  calm,  with  his 
one  eye  glowing  like  a  coal. 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  then  her  still  eyes 
wandered  slowly  to  the  weeping  Captain,  and  she  glided  ovor 
to  him. 

"Mr.  Fisher,"  she  said,  in  a  calm,  compassionate  voice,  "let 
us  endure  this  trial  with  fortitude.  I  grieve  to  see  you  suffer. 
Try  to  be  calm." 

"  I  can't  endoor  it,"  moaned  the  Captain.     "  He's  every- 


HARRINGTON.  529 

thing  to  us.  What'll  Hannah  and  the  children  Bay  when  I  tell 
;em  he'o  gone  1  It'll  be  the  house  of  mournin'  foriver.  Here's 
the  workings  of  slavery.  If  John  H.,  or  Joel  James,  was  in  his 
coffin  this  minute,  it  wouldn't  compare  with  this  bereavement. 
I  don't  see  how  you  can  endoor  it.  I  can't." 

"  He  is  the  light  of  life  to  me,"  she  answered,  gently,  "  but  I 
yield  him  up  with  joy  and  pride.  Can  I  feel  one  pulse  of  grief 
when  I  think  that  he  dies  for  the  inalienable  rights  of  man  ? 
Can  I  remember  that  he  dies  to  save  a  fellow-creature  from 
cruelty  and  wrong,  and  mourn  ?  Think  I  He  was  rich,  and 
he  dies  for  the  poor ;  he  was  strong,  and  he  dies  for  the  weak ; 
he  was  a  freeman,  and  he  dies  for  the  slave.  Is  that  a  death 
to  mourn  ?  No  !  My  soul  is  glad  in  him — iny  heart  covers 
him  with  giory." 

The  Captain  looked  at  her  calm  and  radiant  face  with  a 
startled  visage,  while  a  thrill  ran  through  Ms  veins. 

"  Well,  that's  noble,"  said  he.  "  Yis,  that's  high-minded. 
Don't  say  another  word,  Mrs.  Harrington.  I'm  done.  Yis, 
John  dies  in  the  Lord.  His  father  died  in  the  Lord,  an'  so  he 
will.  It's  hard  to  bear,  but  it's  for  libaty." 

He  turned  from  her,  sobbing,  with  his  head  on  one  side,  and 
sat  down.  She  looked  at  him  compassionately,  and  then 
glided  away  to  Harrington.  He  lay  half-reclining,  with  the 
mellow  lamplight  resting  on  his  face,  sculptural  now  with  the 
pallor  of  dissolution,  the  eyes  clear  and  still  in  their  shadows, 
the  brow  lit  with  the  dews  of  suffering,  and  a  sweet,  faint 
smile  palely  irradiating  all.  Emily,  white  as  marble,  sat  by 
him  with  her  hands  clasping  one  of  his,  magnetically  calmed 
by  his  tender  words,  and  by  the  peaceful  and  noble  passion  of 
his  dying.  Motioning  to  her  not  to  move,  Muriel  pushed  a 
footstool  near  the  couch,  and  kneeling  upon  it  beside  him,  put 
one  arm  around  his  neck,  and  the  other  across  his  bosom 
over  his  shoulder,  and  clasping  him  so,  gazed  with  adoring 
tenderness  into  his  eyes. 

Kneeling  in  silence  thus,  and  holding  his  soul  to  hers,  a  few 
minutes  passed  away,  and  the  sound  of  the  shutting  door 
announced  the  arrival  of  the  physician.  Muriel  and  Emily 
arose,  and  the  former  opened  the  door  of  the  library.  Pre- 
23 


HARRINGTON. 

gently  the  doctor,  a  courteous,  elderly  gentleman,  with  a 
shining ,  bald  head,  entered  bowing,  with  his  bauds  folded 
together. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Harrington,"  said  he,  "what  is  this? 
Your  husband  stabbed  !  I  am  shocked  to  hear  it." 

He  did  not  seem  at  all  shocked,  however;  but  was  simply 
kind,  professional  and  affable,  with  a  little  approval  and  admi 
ration  of  Muriel's  beauty  visible  in  his  manner  as  he  looked 
at  her. 

"  Yes,  doctor,"  she  replied,  calmly.  "  Will  you  look  at  the 
wound  ?" 

She  turned  toward  Harrington .  as  she  spoke,  and  the 
physician  at  once  passed  her,  bowing,  with  his  lips  pursed  up, 
and  laying  aside  the  young  man's  clothes,  looked  at  the  stab. 
Every  eye  was  iixed  upon  him,  and  every  heart,  save  Muriel's, 
throbbed  painfully  in  expectancy.  In  a  few  moments,  he 
turned  away,  and  came  toward  them  with  a  silent  look  on  his 
face,  which  filled  them  with  cold  despair. 

"  How  did  this  happen,  Mrs.  Harrington  ?"  he  asked,  with 
affable  gravity . 

"  Briefly,  doctor,  thus,"  she  replied.  "  Mr.  Harrington 
interfered  to-night  in  behalf  of  a  poor  man,  and  was  wounded 
by  some  unknown  hand  in  the  contest." 

The  doctor  made  a  clicking  sound  with  his  tongue  against 
his  teeth. 

"  What  a  pity  I"  he  added.  "  Have  you  no  clue  to  the  perpe 
trator  of  this  outrage.  The  police  should  be  set  on  the  track 
at  once/7 

"  Doctor,"  said  she,  "  I  will  tell  you  of  this  hereafter.  Let 
me  only  say  now  that  I  wish  this  matter  to  remain,  unknown 
if  possible.  The  mischief  is  done,  and  it  would  only  be  pain 
ful  to  us  to  have  it  given  to  the  public.  If  you  can  serve  me 
in  this  way,  I  will  be  deeply  grateful  to  you." 

"  Oh,  certainly,  Mrs.  Harrington,"  he  replied.  "  I  can  ap 
preciate  your  feeling  under  these  distressing  circumstances. 
You  may  depend  on  me.  There  is  nothing  to  be  done,  I  iisu 
sorry  to  say.  Probably  one  of  the  small  coronary  arteries  has 
been  severed.  The  wound  will  not  bleed,  externally.  Give 


HARRINGTON.  531 

him  wa};er  and  a  little  wine  occasionally,  and  plenty  of  air. 
I  will  come  in  again  in  the  morning  ;  but  I  regret  to  say 
that  I  can  do  nothing,  and  as  I  unfortunately  cannot,  I  will 
not  intrude  further." 

She  bent  her  head  in  response  to  his  affable  bow,  and  he 
backed  bowing  out  of  the  library,  and  was  gone. 

Muriel  opened  the  windows,  then  glided  over  to  Harrington, 
and  knelt,  murmuring  inaudibly  beside  him,  while  the  rest 
stood  in  a  common  stupor  of  cold,  blank  sorrow.  Presently 
she  arose,  and  gave  him  wine  ;  then  laying  down  the  glass, 
she  turned  to  the  dejected  group  : 

"  Friends,"  said  she,  with  calm  solemnity,  "  come  here  1" 

They  all  approached  slowly,  and  stood  with  bent  heads, 
gazing  with  mute  and  mournful  faces  on  the  white  majestic 
features  of  Harrington.  He  lay,  half  reclined,  his  head 
supported  by  the  cushions,  and  rising  with  something  of  its  old 
martial  carriage  from  the  massive  breast,  while  he  looked  upon 
them,  sweet  and  regnant,  with  bright,  dying  eyes. 

"  Dear  friends,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  hollow  and  low,  but  firm 
and  clear,  "you  will  remember  to  keep  all  that  has  happened 
secret.  It  is  my  last  request." 

There  was  a  brief  interval  of  silence. 

"  Come  close  to  me,"  he  said,  looking  at  the  Captain. 

The  old  man  knelt  down  beside  him,  weeping,  and  put  his 
arms  around  him. 

"  Kind  father,"  said  the  low,  sweet  voice,  "my  own  father's 
friend,  the  true  friend  of  my  mother,  so  good  and  faithful  to 
me,  I  love  you  dearly,  and  I  bless  you.  Give  my  fond  love  to 
the  poor  wife  and  the  children,  and  tell  them  we  shall  all 
meet  hereafter.  I  wish  I  could  have  seen  them,  but  it  has 
been  ordered  otherwise.  No  matter  :  we  shall  meet  again." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Then  rising,  still  weeping  bit 
terly,  and  unable  to  speak  a  word,  the  old  man  grasped  for  a 
moment  the  cold  hands  of  him  he  loved  like  his  own  children, 
and  turned  away  sobbing. 

"  Come,  Bagasse,"  said  Harrington,  trying  to  lift  his  arms 
to  him. 

With  a  sudden  movement,  the  Frenchman  threw  himself 


532  HABRINGTON. 

upon  one  knee  beside  him,  clasped  him  in  his  arms,  and  kissed 
him  on  each  cheek. 

"  Hah  1  I  lof  you,"  he  cried  hoarsely,  with  a  visage  of 
glowing  iron,  and  an  eye  of  fire.  "  I  lof  you  wis  my  heart,  my 
life.  See  :  I  die  vair  soon.  It  is  sixtee  year  old  wis  me. 
Soon  I  die  and  come  to  you.  Ah,  brave,  kind,  tendair  zhentil- 
man,  you  go  off  vair  young  1  You  lof  evairybody  so  much  zat 
ze  dam  world  will  not  haf  no  place  for  you.  You  go  to  ze 
good  God.  Ask  Him  zoo  par-don  ze  vair  bad  life  of  old 
Bagasse  zat  he  may  come  stay  wis  you.  Zen  I  am  happy, 
happy." 

"  Fear  not — soon  you  will  see  me,"  murmured  Harrington, 
calmly  smiling.  "It  is  but  a  little  while.  Bend  your  face 
down  to  me." 

Bagasse  did  so,  and  Harrington  gently  pressed  his  lips  to 
each  cheek. 

"  There.  It  is  the  kiss  of  France,"  he  said.  "  Take  it  with 
my  love.  Farewell." 

"  Farewell,  brave  zhentilman,  farewell,"  the  Frenchman  re 
plied.  "  Farewell,  till  I  meet  wis  you.  I  lay  ze  immortelle 
on  you  grave." 

He  sprang  back,  erect  and  martial,  and  folded  his  arms. 
Emily  sank  down  beside  Harrington,  calm,  though  with  a  face 
of  marble,  and  Wentworth,  white  and  stern  with  despairing 
grief,  knelt  on  the  footstool,  with  one  arm  around  his  neck  and 
the  other  grasping  his  hand, 

"  Dear  lovers,"  said  Harrington,  smiling  with  pale  tenderness, 
"  when  the  wedding  comes  think  of  me  as  there.  Do  not 
think  that  you  will  be  lost  to  my  love,  when  I  am  lost  to  your 
eyes.  I  will  be  happy  in  your  happiness  ;  and  my  memory 
will  be  part  of  your  joy.  In  all  the  good  sweet  hours,  in  all 
the  hours  of  earthly  trial  and  sorrow,  I  will  be  with  you.  Our 
happy  days  together  are  not  ended — they  will  be  ours  again 
hereafter." 

"  Oh,  we  have  lost  all  in  losing  you,"  wailed  Emily,  with  the 
tears  flowing  from  her  eyes.  "  I  wish  that  I  had  died  before 
this  sorrow  could  come  to  me." 

"  And  I,"  gasped  Richard  ;  "  my  heart  is  broken  1" 


HASI:I;-;GTON.  533 

The  fleeting  soul  rallied  in  the  feeble  frame  of  Harrington, 
and  with  a  convulsive  effort  he  raised  his  arms,  and  clasped 
them  to  his  breast.  They  clung  to  him,  silently  weeping,  and 
for  a  little  while  all  were  still. 

"  This  is  the  grief  of  dying,"  he  faltered,  at  length.  "  Oh, 
dear  ones,  death  is  bitter  to  me  when  I  see  you  grieve." 

"No,  no,  it  shall  not  be,"  cried  Wentworth,  lifting  his 
streaming  eyes  to  Harrington's.  "  We  will  not  pain  you. 
Emily,  dear  Emily,  let  us  be  calm — let  us  not  make  him  suffer 
whom  we  love." 

"  I  will  not,"  she  answered,  lifting  her  beautiful  agonized 
face,  and  controlling  herself  with  a  strong  effort.  "  I  will  be 
calm.  For  your  sake,  John,  for  I  love  you  as  I  never  dreamed 
I  could  love." 

"Thanks,  thanks,"  faltered  Harrington.  "Dear  Emily, 
dear  Richard,  think  of  Muriel.  She  is  here,  she  you  love  so 
fondly  remains  to  make  life  beautiful  to  you.  Oh,  think  of 
that,  and  be  filled  with  gladness  and  gratitude  1  There.  I 
have  much  to  say  to  you,  but  my  strength  fails  me.  Live 
happy.  Love  much.  Now  farewell  till  we  meet  in  the  bright 
land." 

Emily  bent  down,  folding  hmi  in  her  arms,  and  pressed  her 
mouth  to  his  cold  lips  in  a  long,  fervent  kiss,  whose  memory 
never  left  her  life.  Rising  presently,  she  swept  away  to  the 
extremity  of  the  room,  and  sank  on  her  knees  by  a  chair. 
Wentworth  remained  for  a  little  while,  his  arms  around  his 
friend,  his  head  resting  upon  his  bosom.  Then  raising  his 
sorrowful  and  haggard  face,  he  kissed  him  on  the  forehead, 
grasped  his  hand  and  held  it  to  his  heart,  and  with  one  linger 
ing,  mournful  look  upon  the  noble  and  peaceful  countenance 
which  smiled  upon  him,  reverently  laid  the  hand  down,  and 
slowly  wandering  away,  knelt  beside  Emily. 

Harrington  looked  at  Muriel,  with  his  white  face  kindled. 

"  Come  to  me  now,  my  beloved,"  he  said,  in  a  faint  and 
fervid  voice.  "  The  shadows  have  passed.  Come,  and  share 
my  dying  hour  of  joy." 

Pale,  and  glorious  in  her  festal  beauty,  she  moved  to  the 
folding-doors. 


534  HABEINGTON. 

"  I  will  stay  with  him  till  he  is  gone,"  she  said,  calmly. 
"  Wait  here  till  I  come  out  to  you." 

She  withdrew,  closing  the  doors  behind  her,  leaving  the 
mourners  together.  The  Captain  and  Bagasse  seated  them 
selves  in  silence.  Presently  Emily  and  Wentworth  arose  from 
their  knees,  and  sat  on  a  couch,  clasped  in  each  other's  arms. 
An  intense  stillness  succeeded,  and  the  quiet  light  shone  lonelily 
on  the  four  bowed  and  moveless  forms. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

10   TRITJMPHE. 

THE  solemn  time  slowly  wore  away.  Gradually  the  twilight 
began  to  glimmer  through  the  slats  of  the  western  window. 
Wentworth  rose  noiselessly,  opened  the  window,  put  back  the 
blinds,  and  withdrew  the  curtains  ;  then  extinguishing  the 
light,  resumed  his  seat  again  beside  Emily. 

The  glimmering  twilight  slowly  melted  into  pale  dawn 
with  a  deep  violet  sky  ;  and  the  few  vague  noises  of  reawaken 
ing  life  began  to  sound  in  the  streets  of  the  quiet  neighbor 
hood.  Soon  the  violet  of  the  sky  changed  into  the  light  blue 
of  early  morning,  touched  by  the  unrisen  sun,  and  the  pure 
pallor  of  the  daylight,  lay  within  the  chamber,  and  on  its 
bowed  and  silent  occupants. 

Day  broadened,  and  the  first  fresh  beams  of  the  sunrise 
reddened  on  the  tops  of  the  chimneys.  A  faint  stir  came  to 
them  from  the  inner  room,  and  the  folding-doors  unclosed  a  little, 
and  remained  slightly  ajar.  They  all  rose,  and  stood  in  silence. 
Looking  through  the  aperture,  they  saw  that  the  lamps  were 
extinguished  within,  and  that  a  brighter  day  than  theirs 
flushed  with  light  the  silent  room.  Suddenly  the  folding- 
doors  swung  wide  open,  and  Muriel  appeared,  with  a  face  of 
cloudless  radiance.  For  a  moment  she  stood  in  silence, 


HARRINGTON.  535 

exalted,  dazzling,  a  presence  like  intoxicating  music  ;  her 
snowy  drapery  falling  around  her  in  holy  bacchanal  folds,  her 
amber  hair  rippling  goldenly  and  low,  and  her  features 
kindled  with  a  smile  like  morning. 

"  It  is  over,"  she  said,  her  voice  thrilling  with  a  rapture  of 
tenderness.  "  He  has  gone." 

They  stood  in  silence,  gazing  with  awe  upon  her  pure  and 
lovely  face,  and  the  light  of  her  immortal  joy  and  peace 
floated  in  upon  their  cold  and  desolate  sorrow,  like  heavenly 
rays  upon  a  winter  sea.  Her  sacred  and  auroral  beauty  inter- 
blended  with  their  sense  of  the  solemn  presence  of  the  dead, 
and  the  feelings  that  arose  within  them  were  like  the  prayers 
and  hymns  of  resurrection. 

Standing  with  bowed  heads,  the  passing  perfume  of  bet 
robes  told  them  that  she  moved,  and  they  silently  followed 
her  into  the  room  where  all  that  was  mortal  of  the  hero  lay. 
The  curtains  were  drawn  aside,  and  the  light  of  the  morning, 
warmed  by  the  coming  gold  of  the  sunrise,  streamed  tenderly 
upon  the  white  and  noble  features.  He  lay  reclined,  the  head 
resting  upon  a  cushion,  the  hands  crossed  upon  the  bosom,  the 
bearded  face  beautiful  in  grand  and  sweet  serenity,  with  the 
lips  and  eyelids  closed.  So  peaceful  and  unchanged  was  his 
countenance,  save  in  its  marble  pallor,  that  it  might  have  been 
thought  he  slept.  But  he  was  dead.  Nerveless  now  the 
limbs  so  mighty  in  liberty's  defence  ;  pulseless  now  the  strong 
heart  whose  generous  currents  beat  for  man  ;  the  busy  brain 
that  had  wrought  with  such  divine  ambitions  for  the  race,  was 
stilled  ;  and  all  the  godhood  that  had  given  that  body  its 
majesty  and  beauty,  was  gone  from  it  forever. 

They  gazed  calmly  upon  the  deserted  form.  Grief  had  had 
its  hour.  It  would  but  have  profaned  the  sanctuary  of  that 
holy  and  grand  repose.  The  beauteous  peace  of  death  was 
there,  and  it  made  them  still.  Silently,  for  a  little  while,  they 
looked  with  mournful  and  chastened  spirits  upon  the  clear  and 
lovely  features,  and  as  they  turned  away,  Emily  bent  and 
kissed  the  sacred  forehead. 

"  Sleep  sweetly,  gallant  and  gentle  heart,"  she  said  in  a 
voice  like  fervid,  music.  "  Sleep,  folded  in  the  rest  of  Heaven, 


536  HARRINGTON. 

folded  in  our  Savior's  arms.  Well  for  us  if  we  had  died  like 
you." 

She  rose  with  a  rapt  and  pallid  face,  and  moved  away  en 
circled  by  Wentworth's  arm,  with  her  own  around  him. 

"I  love  you,  Richard,"  she  said.  "I  love  you  with  my 
whole  nature  !  But  far  above  me,  I  saw  a  nobler  love  than 
mine.  It  was  a  love  too  great  and  sweet  for  me — a  love  to 
which  I  never  could  attain  ;  and  with  that  love  I  loved  him." 

He  did  not  reply,  but  clasped  her  closer  to  him,  and  they 
all  went  out  into  the  other  section  of  the  room. 

While  they  stood  in  silence,  a  loud  and  violent  ring,  like 
the  jar  of  devils  breaking  in  upon  their  solemn  peace,  came  at 
the  hall  entrance.  Muriel  paused  a  moment,  then  shut  the 
folding  doors,  and  stepped  into  the  passage.  Patrick  was  up, 
and  was  already  shuffling  along  the  entry  below  to  answer  the 
summons.  Presently  the  hall-door  opened,  and  Muriel,  lean 
ing  over  the  banister,  heard  a  harsh  and  angry  voice  say  : 

"  Where's  Mr.  Harrington  ?  I  want  to  see  him  immedi 
ately." 

It  was  Lemuel  Atkins. 

"  Patrick,"  said  Muriel,  before  the  servant  could  reply, 
"  show  that  person  up  here." 

She  retired  into  the  library,  and  trampling  rudely  up-stairs 
came  Mr.  Atkins,  and  strode  into  the  library  with  his  hat  on, 
livid  with  passion. 

"  Where's  that  ruffian  husband  of  yours  ?"  he  brawled,  front 
ing  Muriel.  "  I  want  to  see  him  instantly.  Where  is  he  ? 
Where  have  you  hidden  him  ?" 

"  Mr.  Atkins,"  said  Wentworth,  stepping  forward,  with  a 
stern  white  face,  "  permit  me  to  remind  you  that  you  are 
speaking  to  a  lady,  and  that  you  have  your  hat  on  in  her 
presence.  Take  your  hat  off  at  once,  sir." 

Mr.  Atkins  took  his  hat  by  the  rim  with  both  hands,  pulled 
it  down  more  firmly  on  his  head,  and  swelling  out  his  chest 
with  vulgar  insolence,  fronted  Wentworth  with  a  blustering  air. 

"  There,  sir,"  said  he. 

"  And  there,  sir,"  replied  Wentworth,  knocking  the  hat  from 
his  head  clear  across  the  room. 


HARRINGTON.  537 

Mr.  Atkins,  frightened  a  little  at  this  decisive  action,  glared 
at  him  with  glassy  eyes,  but  Wentworth,  with  a  cold,  stern 
face,  retired  a  few  paces.,  with  his  gaze  fixed  on  Muriel.  Ba 
gasse,  meanwhile,  the  hat  having  fallen  near  him,  crushed  it 
beneath  his  feet,  and  stood  on  it,  with  an  eye  like  a  red 
coal. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Muriel,  quietly,  "  you  were  asking  after 
my  husband.  What  do  you  want  with  him  ?  What  is  the 
matter  ?" 

"  The  matter  is  this,  madam,"  roared  the  merchant,  bending 
his  livid  and  brutal  face  down  to  hers,  with  his  horse-jaws  wide 
open.  "  I  send  a  damned  runaway  scoundrel  down  the  harbor 
for  safe-keeping,  and  your  ruffianly  husband  goes  down  there, 
and  not  only  takes  him  away,  but  nearly  kills  the  men  I  put 
in  charge  of  him.  Don't  you  deny  it,  madam,  and  say  it  was 
some  one  else,  for  one  of  those  men  heard  the  runaway  rascal 
call  him  by  his  name.  Now,  where  is  he  ?  Out  with  him  at 
once  !  Here's  one  of  those  men  just  come  up  to  me  with  the 
news  ;  yes,  and  there's  another  thing.  He  had  to  hail  a  boat 
that  was  passing  to  take  him  up  to  the  city,  for  your  robber  of 
a  husband  upset  every  boat  that  was  at  the  wharf.  Yes, 
madam,  upset  them  !  And  then  when  the  men  endeavored  to 
retake  their  prisoner,  he  fell  upon  them  with  his  fists  and  feet, 
and  nearly  killed  them.  There  they  are,  seven  of  them,  all 

mangled,  and  bruised,  and  battered,  and .  Where  is  he, 

I  say  ?  Produce  him  at  once  !" 

There  was  no  change  in  Muriel's  serene  face  while  the  mer 
chant  belched  all  this  into  it,  save  only  a  close  contraction  of 
her  delicate  nostrils  ;  and  this  was  not  caused  by  emotion  but 
by  the  fetor  of  his  breath,  which  was  abominable. 

"  How  many  men  did  you  say,  sir  ?"  she  asked  quietly,  the 
moment  he  had  done  speaking. 

"  I  said  seven,  madam  ;  seven  men  all  bruised  and  " 

He  stopped,  arrested  and  confused  nearly  to  choking,  by  her 
still  smile  of  scorn. 

"  Seven  men,  Lemuel  Atkins,"  said  she,  derisively.  "  Seven 
men  with  knives  in  their  hands.  Seven  armed  ruffians,  and  my 
husband,  bare-handed,  crushed  them  all  !  Oh,  my  husband, 

23* 


538  HAEEINGTON. 

but  I  am  proud  of  you  I  And  you,  Lemuel  Atkins,  you  have 
the  face  to  come  here,  and  blazon  the  shame  of  your  seven 
hired  assassins.  Well  done  I" 

Brutal  and  impudent  as  he  was,  Mr.  Atkins  could  not  but 
be  abashed  at  this  sarcastic  exposure  of  his  inglorious  com 
plaint,  and  stood  working  his  jaw  in  the  effort  to  collect  him 
self. 

"  And  you  want  to  see  my  husband  ?"  pursued  Muriel. 
"  Good.  You  shall  see  him.  Richard,  throw  open  those 
doors." 

Wentworth  immediately  flung  the  folding-doors  asunder,  and 
Muriel,  grasping  the  merchant  by  the  wrist,  drew  him  into  the 
room,  and  up  to  the  couch. 

"  There  he  is,"  said  she,  "  murdered  !     By  you  !" 

The  merchant's  visage  instantly  changed  to  a  frightful  and 
ghastly  blue,  his  jaw  dropped,  his  hair  rose  bristling,  and, 
petrified  with  horror,  he  stood  glaring  at  the  corpse.  Like 
many  coarse  natures,  he  had  a  natural  vulgar  dread  of  a  dead 
body,  but  added  to  that  was  the  terrific  shock  of  being  brought 
suddenly  before  the  slaughtered  corpse  of  his  niece's  husband, 
the  dreadful  consciousness  that  he  himself  was  morally  respon 
sible  for  this  ruin,  and  the  soul-sickening  fear  that  now  the 
law  would  pursue  its  authors,  and  that  his  own  wicked  and 
illegal  act,  with  the  blood  of  a  murder  on  it,  would  be  exposed 
to  the  public  view.  The  simple  illegal  kidnapping,  at  a  time 
when  Boston  had  gone  for  kidnapping,  was  nothing  ;  his  tribe 
would  wink  at  that ;  but  with  this  crime  upon  it,  he  never 
could  survive  the  consequences. 

"  See,"  said  Muriel,  laying  bare  the  breast,  "  there  is  the 
wound  of  the  knife  that  slew  him.  You,  Lemuel  Atkins, 
through  your  agent,  struck  that  blow." 

She  looked  at  him  with  clear  and  glowing  eyes,  but  he  did 
not  heed  her,  nor  did  the  ghastly  aspect  of  his  visage  change. 
Transfixed  with  horror,  he  stood  immovable,  his  gaze  bound 
by  a  dreadful  fascination  to  the  short  purple  line  in  an  orb  of 
red  suffusion  on  the  white  breast.  But  at  last,  his  glassy  eyes 
wandered  to  her  face. 

"  It'll  kill  her,"  he  murmured  in  a  horrible,  low  voice,  talking 


HARRINGTON.  539 

to  himself  as  though  she  were  not  present.  "  She'll  die  of  grief 
for  him." 

Muriel  smiled — a  clear,  still  smile  that  made  him  shiver. 

"  You  think  so  1"  she  replied,  in  firm  and  steady  tones. 
"  You  think  I  will  die  of  grief  for  my  slain  husband  ?  Well 
you  may,  for  I  loved  him  with  a  love  of  whose  strength  and 
fervency  a  nature  like  yours  knows,  and  can  know,  nothing. 
Well  may  you  think  so,  for  he  was  the  light  of  life  to  me. 
But  see — "  she  seized  the  merchant's  hand,  and  laid  it  on  her 
wrist — "  the  pulse  beats  calm  1  Feel  " — she  placed  his  hand 
upon  her  heart — "  there  is  no  throb  of  anguish  there  !  Look 
at  my  face — it  is  not  the  face  of  grief  1  Kill  me  ?  No,  it 
will  not  kill  me  I  Grieve  me  ?  No  it  can  never  grieve  me  ! 
Sorrow  nor  death  can  come  not  nigh  me — for  he  lies  dead  in 
the  divinest  death  a  man  can  die,  and  I  am  filled  with  glad 
ness  and  with  pride  !  Should  I  not  be  glad  and  proud  ?  The 
most  forsaken  of  mankind,  the  Pariah  of  a  despised  and 
trampled  race,  came  from  long  years  of  misery  to  his  charge, 
and  when  you  stole  that  most  wretched  being  that  you  might 
send  him  back  to  the  hourly  murder  from  which  he  had 
emerged,  my  spotless  hero  went  from  this  house  knowing  that 
he  never  would  return  alive,  and  willingly  laid  down  his  life 
to  save  him.  Yes — he  knew  that  the  price  of  that  man's  lib 
erty  was  his  own  life,  and  he  paid  it.  Alone  he  did  it — alone 
he  took  your  victim  from  his  captors — alone  and  naked-handed 
he  crushed  the  seven  assassins  who  dared  to  front  him  in  his 
manhood — and  with  that  red  star  of  honor  on  his  breast  he 
came  home  here  to  die  in  my  exulting  arms.  There  he  lies — 
dead  in  the  noblest  death  a  man  can  suffer — death  in  the  ser 
vice  of  the  weak  and  poor.  Dead — and  on  all  his  life  the 
splendor  of  that  heroic  devotion;  dead — and  on  his  breast  that 
red  blazon  of  glory  immortal  ;  and  I  could  rifle  earth  of  its 
roses  to  deck  this  hour,  and  break  up  heaven  for  the  music  of 
my  joy  !" 

The  clear  and  fiery  silver  of  her  voice  rang  through  him 
like  a  hundred  swords,  and  staggering  back  a  pace,  he  fairly 
crouched  before  the  stormy  effulgence  of  her  beauty.  For  she 
flamed  upon  him,  dilated,  with  a  terrible  enthusiasm  quivering 


540  HARRINGTON. 

through  her  flushed  and  kindled  features  and  an  electric  aure 
ole  of  victory  darting  from  her  like  a  sense  of  rays.  Not  him 
alone  did  she  overwhelm — the  air  of  the  room  was  deluged 
with  the  torrent  magnetism  of  her  spirit,  as  if  it  had  been 
flooded  with  a  rushing  ether  of  light  flame,  and  every  heart 
beat  as  with  the  wings  of  eagles,  and  every  cheek  was  pale 
with  the  draining  rapture  of  her  ardor.  Not  him  alone,  but 
him  chiefly,  and  only  him  with  dread.  Had  she  flashed  hate 
and  scorn  upon  him,  he  could  have  better  borne  it.  But  this 
supernatural  exultation  over  an  event  which  he  thought  would 
have  bowed  her  in  pallid  agonies  of  grief — this  sublime  and 
haughty  glory  in  her  husband's  fate — astounded  and  terrified 
him.  It  mingled  with  his  sense  of  her  paBan  tones  and  words, 
the  patrician  nobility  of  her  figure  in  its  snowy  odor-breathing 
raiment,  all  the  fiery  beauty  and  dazzling  enchantments  of  her 
presence — and  it  rushed  into  a  consciousness  worse  than  the 
consciousness  of  her  hate  and  scorn — the  consciousness  of  the 
thing  he  was  contrasted  with  her.  The  very  sight  of  her  was 
the  insupportable  verdict  of  his  own  utter  baseness,  and  he 
stood  crouching  and  shuddering,  with  his  glassy  eyes  bound  to 
her  face,  as  if  some  judgment  angel,  dreadful  in  loveliness,  had 
burst  upon  him  from  the  woman  he  knew. 

She  turned  away,  and  his  gaze  slowly  reverted  to  the  corpse. 
At  once,  with  tenfold  vehemence,  his  former  fear  and  horror 
rose  within  him. 

"  My  God  !"  he  gasped,  "  this  is  an  awful  tragedy!" 

Sudden  as  lightning  she  wheeled  around,  and  the  first  slant 
ing  beam  of  the  sunrise  smote  her  forehead,  and  lit  her  noble 
features  with  a  new  resplendence  ! 

"  It  is  not  !"  she  cried,  in  a  proud  and  ringing  voice.  "  It 
is  a  triumph  !  You  threw  the  interests  of  your  party  and 
your  trade  into  the  scale  against  a  man's  liberty.  He  threw 
the  rich,  red  blood  of  his  heart  into  the  other  side,  and  weighed 
you  down.  It  is  a  triumph  I  Call  it  no  tragedy  which  breaks 
one  fetterlock,  even  at  the  cost  of  a  sweet  life  !  Oh,  brother 
of  the  despised  and  the  rejected,  well  for  earth's  proudest  if  he 
went  to  God  like  you,  the  savior  of  a  poor  spirit  from  the 
curse  of  bonds,  and  bearing  up  to  heaven  the  trophy  of  one 


HARRINGTON.  54:1 

broken  chain  I  Pass  me,  sorrow,  pass,  and  come  not  nigh 
me — for  oh,  my  husband,  you  laid  down  your  life  for  a  weak 
and  lowly  slave,  and  there  is  morning  in  my  heart  for 
ever  I" 

Her  pealing  voice,  proud  and  ringing  while  she  spoke  to 
him,  melted  into  clear  and  noble  pathos  as  she  turned  to  the 
visioned  image  of  her  hero,  and  the  words  breathed  in  tones  of 
illimitable  ecstasy  upon  an  air  that  seemed  to  beat  and  swim 
in  rapture.  The  swiftly  ascending  sunlight  rested  upon  her  as 
she  stood  with  clasped  hands,  her  tresses  shining  in  golden 
glory  around  her  divinely  kindled  face,  her  soft,  white  drapery 
flowing  and  trembling  around  her,  and  gazing  upon  her  from 
the  inner  room  as  through  a  veil  of  fire  and  tears,  she  seemed 
to  them  like  some  splendid  seraph  of  the  morning,  dilated  with 
holy  and  heroic  joy. 

A  low  groan  heaved  from  the  chest  of  the  wretched  Atkins. 
She  looked  at  him.  He  was  gazing  with  a  face  of  abject  hor 
ror  and  despair  on  the  majestic  figure  of  the  dead. 

"  Come  away,"  she  said,  solemnly,  taking  the  passive  wretch 
by  the  arm,  and  leading  him  into  the  other  room.  "I 
pity  you  from  the  depths  of  my  soul.  You  are  the  tragedy — 
you  and  the  social  order  that  has  ruined  you.  Would  that  I 
could  do  you  good!  I  cannot.  You  are  made,  and  only 
death  can  unmake  you.  Well  will  it  be  for  you  when  your 
sad  failure  of  an  earthly  life  is  ended,  and  you  can  resume  that 
you  were  before  you  were  born." 

He  turned  toward  her,  dreadfully  agitated,  with  the  foul 
tears  flowing  on  his  convulsed  and  livid  visage. 

"  Spare  me,"  he  hoarsely  faltered,  clasping  his  hands,  "  spare 
me  the  exposure  !  For  the  love  of  God,  let  it  be  hushed  up  ! 
It'll  ruin  me  and  my  family,  and — Oh,  I  beg  of  you  let 
it" 

"Listen  to  me,"  said  Muriel,  interrupting  him.  "My 
mother  has  not  yet  left  her  chamber,  and  therefore  does  not 
know  of  what  has  happened.  Spare  her  the  anguish  of  seeing 
you  here  with  the  body  of  her  beloved  son  lying  there.  I 
have  already  kept  you  too  long.  Bat  hear  this  :  the  persons 
present,  and  one  other,  are  the  only  persons  who  kuow  of  this 


54:2  HARRINGTON. 

transaction,  and  they  are  pledged  never  to  divulge  it.  Keep 
it  secret  then  yourself.  It  ends  here." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you;  Fm  very  grateful,  indeed  I 
am,"  he  hurriedly  replied,  showing  in  his  agitation  a  mean  re 
lief  at  his  escape  from  the  consequences  of  his  wickedness  : 
"  I'll  go  at  once." 

He  looked  around  for  his  hat.  Bagasse  kicked  it  over  to 
him,  with  an  eye  that  flashed  red  fire.  Atkins  did  not  show 
the  least  resentment  at  the  insult,  but  hastily  picking  up  the 
crushed  castor,  hurriedly  left  the  library  straightening  it 
out,  and  presently  they  heard  the  hall-door  close  behind 
him. 

Muriel  went  to  the  body  of  Harrington,  and  arranged  the 
clothes  over  the  bosom.  In  a  moment  or  two  the  others  fol 
lowed  her,  and  as  they  approached,  she  turned  toward  them. 

"  I  must  go  up  to  tell  mother  of  this,"  she  said.  "  It  is 
better  that  she  should  hear  it  in  her  own  chamber." 

"  We  ought  to  have  called  her,  that  she  might  see  John  be 
fore  he  died,"  said  Emily. 

"  No,"  replied  Muriel  ;  "  I  thought  of  it,  but  I  feared  to 
have  her  here  for  her  own  sake.  And  I  fear  the  shock  it  will 
give  her  now.  I  must  go  at  once." 

She  moved  to  the  entrance,  but  at  that  moment  Mrs.  East 
man  entered  the  library  in  the  section  beyond  the  folding  doors. 
Muriel  sprang,  caught  her  in  her  arms,  and  gazed  with  all  her 
soul  in  her  eyes,  into  her  pale  countenance.  Mrs.  Eastman  had 
not  caught  sight  of  the  body,  but  she  saw  Bagasse  and  the 
Captain,  and  knew  at  once  that  something  unusual  had  hap 
pened,  and  with  a  startled  glance  at  the  averted  faces  of  the 
group,  she  looked  with  ashen  features  at  Muriel. 

"  Mother,"  said  Muriel,  in  a  firm,  proud  voice,  "  look  at  me. 
Am  I  not  happy  ?" 

Mrs.  Eastman  gazed  with  a  wan  smile  at  the  radiant  coun 
tenance  of  her  daughter. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  she  wonderingly  murmured  ;  "I  never  sa\v 
you  look  more  so.  But  why  are  you  joyful  ?" 

"  Because  this  is  a  day  of  joy,  mother,"  replied  Muriel. 
"  It  is  the  joy  of  joys  to-day.  Heaven  touches  earth  with  me, 


HARRINGTON.  543 

and  I  am  happy.     Mother,  the  poor  man  who  was  stolen  from 
us  is  saved  !     John  has  ransomed  him  1" 

"Why!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Eastman,  starting,  with  a  bright 
smile,  in  her  daughter's  arms.  "  This  is  indeed  good  news. 
But  what  do  you  mean — how  did  John  ransom  him  ?" 

"  With  a  great  price,  my  mother,"  cried  Muriel,  a  brilliant 
smile  irradiating  her  inspired  features.  "  A  price  which  I  am 
willing  and  proud  to  pay.  Are  you  ?" 

"  I  would  pay  any  price  for  such  a  good  as  this,"  replied 
Mrs.  Eastman,  with  some  wonder  visible  in  her  joy. 

11  Any,  mother  ?" 

"  Yes,  any." 

"  Ah,  mother,  let  me  try  you.  Suppose  the  price  was  your 
whole  fortune.  Would  you  give  it  ?" 

•  "  I  would  give  it  all,"  answered  Mrs.  Eastman,  fervently. 
"  I  would  give  everything  rather  than  go  through  life  with  the 
shame  and  agony  of  Lemuel's  sin  and  that  poor  man's  murder 
upon  me." 

"  But,  mother,  suppose  Heaven  asked  of  you  a  greater  price 
than  that.  Suppose  it  asked,  as  the  price  of  a  poor  man's 
liberty,  your  daughter's  life,  or  the  life  of  your  son.  Would 
you  give  it  ?  Answer  me  yes,"  she  cried,  with  flashing  eyes. 
"  Tell  me  that  yours  is  not  a  cheap  devotion  to  the  old  New 
England  honor — the  old  New  England  liberty — the  old  New 
England  justice  !  Tell  me  that  you  are  willing  to  offer  up  to 
Heaven  the  dearest  and  the  proudest  sacrifice  a  soul  can  offer, 
that  I  may  love  you  with  the  love  of  love  foreverrnore  !" 

To  stand  before  that  impassioned  and  magnetic  face,  to  hear 
those  burning  and  electric  tones,  and  not  be  kindled  by  their 
enthusiasm,  was  not  in  human  nature.  The  flame  thrilled 
through  the  mother's  soul,  and  with  a  pale,  proud  countenance, 
and  quivering  nostrils,  while  a  vague  and  awful  consciousness 
of  what  had  happened  arose  within  her,  she  looked  steadily 
into  the  flashed  and  exalted  features  of  Muriel. 

"  I  have  not  your  spirit,  Muriel,"  she  tremulously  answered, 
"  and  such  a  sacrifice  would  be  hard  for  me  to  make,  but  I 
would  strive  to  make  it — I  would  strive  to  be  worthy  of  my 
daughter." 


544  HAERINGTON. 

"  Mother  of  my  heart  I"  cried  Muriel,  with  passionate  fer 
vor.  "  Behold,  the  hour  has  come  for  you  to  strive  with  every 
mortal  weakness.  Lean  on  me  now — let  me  fill  you  with  my 
strength — let  me  dilate  you  with  my  joy.  Rouse  up  your  soul 
to  fortitude — nerve  it  to  bear  as  only  a  woman's  soul  can  bear 
— for  Heaven  has  asked  the  great  sacrifice  of  us  all.  Oh,  my 
mother,  Heaven  has  said  to  him  we  love — the  price  of  the 
ransom  is  your  own  life — and  with  his  life  he  has  paid  it.'7 

The  mother  looked  at  her  with  a  pale,  still  countenance. 
She  did  not  swoon,  she  did  not  shriek,  she  did  not  weep  nor 
tremble.  The  strong  sustaining  spell  of  Muriel's  spirit  was 
upon  her  ;  her  clear  magnetic  eyes  upheld  her  ;  and  she 
breathed  in  the  mighty  ether  of  that  electrifying  sphere  of 
pride  and  joy.  Left  to  herself  she  might  have  dropped  dead 
or  mad  ;  but  interpenetrated  with  that  effluent  will,  and 
moved  and  kindled  by  the  grandeur  of  her  daughter's  noble 
ness,  she  rose  in  courage  like  the  courage  of  a  spirit  when  it 
leaves  the  serene  regions  to  dare  the  doom  of  dark  avatars. 

"  I  hear  you,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  full,  equal  voice,  sounding 
more  like  Muriel's  than  her  own.  "I  hear  you,  and  I  am 
filled  with  your  life.  You  wish  me  to  be  "calm  and  strong.  I 
am  calm  and  strong.  I  understand  you  perfectly.  You  tell 
me  that  he  is  dead." 

"  Mother,"  replied  Muriel,  with  solemn  fervor,  "  his  earthly 
life  is  ended,  but  he  lives  forever.  He  died  a  hero's  death, 
and  all  who  made  earth  noble  with  their  living  and  their  dy 
ing,  rise  up  to  welcome  him." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  in  which  their  eyes  remained 
bound  to  each  other.  Then  the  low,  full,  equal  voice  spoke  on. 

"  Tell  me  more,  Muriel.  Tell  me  how  he  died.  I  am  calm. 
I  can  bear  to  hear  it  all." 

"  I  will  tell  you,  my  mother,"  Muriel  replied.  "  He  heard 
that  the  man  was  a  prisoner  in  a  boat  at  an  island  wharf  in 
the  bay.  Last  night  he  sailed  through  the  tempest,  and  cap 
tured  him.  Seven  to  one,  they  followed  him  to  the  beach,  and 
fell  upon  him.  He  crushed  them  every  one,  received  a  death- 
wound  in  the  fray,  returned  in  victory,  and  died  here  at  sun 
rise.  That  is  all." 


HAEEINGTON.  54:5 

The  pale  face  flushed  slowly. 

"  I  drove  him  to  this,"  was  the  low  reply.  "  Did  I  not  ? 
Have  not  I  killed  him  ?" 

"  No,  mother,"  answered  Muriel,  calmly.  "  It  is  not  so.  I 
had  determined  to  disregard  your  wishes,  but  this  plan  was 
surer,  and  he  and  I  chose  it." 

The  pale  face  lightened,  and  the  flush  died  away  in  marble 
pallor. 

"  No,  it  was  not  I  that  killed  him,"  she  said,  slowly.  "  It 
was  another,  and  him  I  renounce  forever.  Lemuel " 

"  Hush,  mother,"  said  Muriel.  "  Not  a  word  of  him.  Let 
us  pity  and  pardon  him — but  do  not  utter  his  name  again. 
Let  him  pass  in  peace." 

There  was  a  brief  interval  of  silence  before  the  mother 
spoke  again. 

"  Where  is  he,  Muriel  ?  Let  me  see  him.  Do  not  hold  me 
from  him.  Do  not  fear  for  me.  I  am  calm  and  strong.  I 
can  bear  to  see  him  now,  though  he  is  dead." 

The  pleading  and  pathetic  voice  touched  Muriel  to  her 
heart's  core,  though  there  was  no  sign  of  emotion  on  her 
face.  Her  clasp  tightened  around  her  mother,  and  for  a  mo 
ment  her  clear  eyes  dwelt  upon  the  pallid  countenance. 

"  Can  you  bear  to  look  upon  him  now  ?"  she  replied.  "  Be 
calm — be  strong.  Look  into  that  room.  He  is  there." 

The  mother,  strongly  held  by  Muriel's  arms,  slowly  turned 
her  head,  and  gazed.  A  broad  ray  of  sunlight  rested  on  the 
couch,  and  the  sculptured  face  shone  in  white  splendor.  Long 
and  breathlessly  she  gazed  upon  it. 

"  Come,"  murmured  Muriel. 

Clasped  in  each  other's  arms,  they  moved  slowly  to  the  side 
of  the  couch,  and  stood  gazing  on  the  white  and  noble  features, 
clear-cut  and  glorious  in  the  dazzling  stream  of  light  which  fell 
upon  them,  and  relieved  by  the  violet  velvet  on  which  the 
body  lay.  It  was  death,  but  death  in  the  lustrous  beauty  of 
a  vision.  The  rich  magic  splendor  that  irradiated  the  majestic 
countenance,  seemed  issuant  from  it — a  blazing  halo,  in  which 
it  would  rest  forever. 

"  He  is  beautiful,"  murmured  Mrs.  Eastman,  in  a  hushed 


546  HARRINGTON. 

and  mournful  voice.  "Beautiful  as  a  dream.  My  dead 
son  I" 

Three  little  words,  but  in  them  what  a  large  world  of  affec 
tion  and  sorrow  found  room  !  A  thrill  of  emotion  came  to 
the  silent  group  as  her  low,  distinct  voice,  awful  in  its  pathos, 
gave  those  words  utterance.  Noiselessly  and  slowly  she  sank 
from  Muriel's  arms  to  her  knees,  and  laid  her  head  upon  the 
pulseless  breast ;  for  a  little  while  she  remained  there,  with 
the  strong  glory  lending  a  brighter  silver  to  her  tresses  ;  and 
rising  again,  her  calm  face  was  wet  with  tears. 

"  It  is  a  great  grief/'  she  said,  as  Muriel  again  encircled 
her  in  her  arms.  "It  is  a  greater  grief,  Muriel,  than 
when  your  father  died.  I  wonder  that  I  can  bear  it  as  I 
do.  And  you,  my  poor  child,  widowed  now  like  me,  how  can 
you  endure  your  loss — how  can  you  look  so  beautiful  and 
happy,  and  he  lying  dead  beside  you  ?" 

11  Look,  mother,"  cried  Muriel,  "  look  at  that  sky  !" 

She  drew  her  to  the  casement  as  she  spoke,  and  flinging  it 
open,  they  stood,  with  the  blithe,  fresh  air  of  the  brilliant 
morning  around  them,  gazing  together  on  the  transcendent 
pomp  of  the  sunrise.  Far  up  the  blue  zenith,  the  sky  was 
bannered  with  floating  clouds  of  gold  and  purple  and  crimson, 
and  burst  on  burst  of  splendor  streamed  through  them  from 
the  dazzling  orb  which  filled  the  broad  day  with  haughty  and 
majestic  glory. 

"  Is  this  a  day  for  grief  ?"  said  Muriel.  "  Behold,  it  throbs 
with  victory — it  trembles  with  immortality  !  See  how  its  colors 
and  its  splendors  deck  the  sky!  They  glow  and  burn  in 
beauty  and  in  triumph  for  the  return  of  a  conqueror.  Dead 
soldier  of  Democracy,  the  beautiful  and  bannered  sky  is  for 
you  I  Burst  high,  flash  far,  float  wide,  oh  divine  resplend 
ence,  and  fill  the  vast  with  the  gorgeous  colors  of  victory,  for 
to-day  all  Heaven  holds  jubilee,  and  welcomes  back  one  saint 
and  savior  more  1" 

Her  low  voice  trembled  with  fervor  as  it  uttered  the  pas 
sionate  words,  and  her  sunlit  face  shone  like  an  angel's.  Still 
holding  her  mother  in  her  arms,  she  turned  with  her  to  the 
illuminated  form  of  her  lover. 


HARRINGTON.  547 

"Think,  mother,  how  he  lived,"  she  said;  "think  how  he 
died.  In  a  city  whose  vice  it  is  that  its  valor  and  compassion 
run  to  brains,  he  was  an  arm.  A  mind  trained  for  the  human 
service,  and  an  arm.  An  arm  swift,  and  loving-swift  to  smite 
the  robbers  of  the  poor;  a  heart  that  could  feel  tenderly  and 
gently  even  for  them ;  a  life  which  beat,  in  its  every  artery, 
with  the  blood  of  his  love  for  mankind.  Ob,  never  can  I 
mourn  him  !  The  question  that  shakes  the  land  and  age 
came  to  him — in  the  person  of  that  forlorn  wanderer  it  came, 
saying,  shall  it  be  slavery  or  liberty  for  such  as  me — and  not 
with  a  word,  but  with  a  deed  he  answered,  liberty  I  Ay, 
with  his  life  he  answered,  liberty  !  Look  on  him  with  joy  as 
I  do,  for  grief  is  insult  to  the  dead  who  die  for  man.  Proud, 
proud  death  !  Sweet,  sweet  to  die  for  liberty,  and  sweet  to 
look  in  life  on  him  who  has  so  died.  Mourn  him?  Oh, 
never  !  My  own  dear  love,  my  friend,  my  husband,  angel  of 
my  heart  and  of  my  life,  I  do  not  mourn  you — I  think  of  you 
with  joy  and  pride.  You  smile  upon  me  still,  you  wait  for 
me  in  the  Hereafter,  you  see  my  life  all  festal  with  your 
memory,  you  see  my  earthly  years  flow  forward  beautiful  with 
your  presence  and  rich  with  the  light  of  your  Paradise.  Oh, 
still  be  with  me — let  me  never  lose  the  dear  consciousness  that 
you  see  me — let  it  endure  to  make  my  solitude  divine,  until  I 
meet  you  in  the  world  of  souls  I" 

Awed  and  thrilled  by  her  tender  and  fervent  ecstasy,  Mrs. 
Eastman  slowly  withdrew  from  her  arms,  and  sank  into  a 
chair.  A  deep  and  solemn  silence  tranced  the  rich  room. 
Muriel  glided  near  her  dead  lover,  and  stood  with  the  soft 
Bummershine  of  June  tenderly  splendid  on  her  golden  hair  and 
noble  features,  her  soul  rapt  in  exultant  joy  and  peace,  and 
her  thoughts  sweeping  through  Eternity.  And  as  she  mused, 
Emily,  with  the  color  in  her  face  and  her  eyes  like  stars,  went 
to  the  organ,  and  the  deep  surge  of  music  fit  for  the  buriel  of 
champions,  rose  and  rolled  in  ravishing  triumphal  grandeur, 
and  swelled  in  a  burning  dream  of  joy  immortal,  and  endless 
glory  for  the  brave. 

Loud  rolled  and  soared  the  pasan  of  the  music.  Burst  on 
burst,  the  rays  of  haughty  splendor  streamed  through  the 


54:8  HARRINGTON". 

bannered  pomps  that  flamed  and  glowed  against  the  dazzling 
sapphire  of  the  day.  Tide  on  tide  the  effulgence  poured 
around  the  heavenly-hearted  heroine;  and  kindling  on  the  violet 
velvet  of  the  couch,  as  on  the  bier  of  an  emperor,  into  a  softer 
rapture  of  triumphant  flame,  it  lay  in  a  blazing  halo  on  the 
folded  hands,  the  broad  heroic  breast,  the  martial  and  noble 
features  of  the  dead  soldier  of  Democracy. 


EPILOGUE.  549 


EPILOGUE. 

THAT  morning,  at  eight  o'clock,  Wentworth  took  Roux  and 
Antony,  with  the  elfin  Tugmutton,  to  Worcester,  and  delivered 
them,  with  a  note  from  Muriel,  to  the  care  of  a  friend.  A 
week  later,  and  Roux's  family  followed  him.  Safe  in  the 
uncorrupted  heart  of  the  Commonwealth,  where,  even  in  that 
dark  period,  the  old  New  England  honor  fortressed  the  rights 
of  the  lowly — happy,  because  they  knew  not  what  had 
befallen  their  strong  friend— thenceforth  their  humble  fortunes 
flowed  in  peace. 

Wentworth  returned  hi  the  afternoon  of  that  day,  but  even 
before  his  return,  the  news  of  Harrington's  death  had  spread 
abroad  among  all  who  knew  the  family,  and  already  a  number 
of  friends  had  called.  Mrs.  Eastman  and  Muriel,  however, 
unwilling  to  be  questioned,  had  decided  to  excuse  themselves 
to  every  one,  and  nobody  was  admitted.  Harrington  had  lived 
rather  a  reclusive  life — at  least,  he  went  but  little  into  what  is 
called  society,  and  except  to  a  number  of  poor  and  humble 
people,  he  was  little  known.  To  most  of  the  friends  and 
acquaintance  of  Muriel,  he  was  a  stranger,  and  to  the  neigh 
borhood  only  a  stately  figure,  sometimes  seen  alone  from  the 
windows,  sometimes  walking  with  her.  Hence  the  interest  the 
neighborhood  felt  in  his  death  was,  as  far  as  he  personally  was 
concerned,  vague,  and  keen  only  on  account  of  Muriel,  whose 
loss,  so  soon  after  her  marriage,  excited  a  great  deal  of  sym 
pathy  and  comment. 

The  funeral  was  to  be  strictly  private,  and  Wentworth 
returned  to  find  the  beauteous  body  already  prepared  for  the 
grave.  It  lay  in  its  casket  in  the  library,  garbed  in  the 
clothes  it  had  worn  in  life.  The  young  man  gazed  upon  it  a 
little  while,  then  turned  to  Muriel. 


550  EPILOGtTE. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "the  burial  permit  has  been  at 
tended  to." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  Dr.  Winslow  gave  the  cer 
tificate." 

"  What  cause  could  he  have  assigned  for  the  death  ?"  he 
asked,  with  a  startled  air. 

Muriel  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  with  a  strange,  faint 
smile. 

"  Enlargement  of  the  heart,"  she  answered. 

Wentworth's  pale  face  became  convulsed,  and  his  eyes  filled 
with  tears. 

"Yes,"  he  murmured,  clasping  his  hands,  "that  was  the 
cause  indeed  !" 

It  was  a  day  of  grief  to  all  but  Muriel.  The  servants 
moved  about  the  house  with  eyes  red  with  weeping.  Patrick 
seemed  ten  years  older  with  his  forlorn  sorrow.  Hannah  and 
the  children  came  to  the  house,  and  remained  for  a  couple  of 
hours,  crying  bitterly.  Gracious  and  calm  and  sweet  amidst 
the  mortal  anguish,  Muriel  soothed  and  strengthened  and  con 
soled  them  all. 

The  next  day  was  the  day  of  the  funeral.  The  library 
where  the  body  lay  was  decked  as  on  the  day  of  the  wedding, 
with  a  profusion  of  roses.  All  the  windows  were  open,  and 
the  rich,  dark  room  swam  in  clear  radiance. 

In  the  morning,  Mrs.  Eastman,  Emily,  Wentworth,  and 
Captain  Fisher,  being  present,  Muriel  produced  a  brief  will 
which  Harrington  had  made  the  day  after  his  marriage.  The 
few  engravings  which  decora-ted  his  room,  and  a  portion  of  his 
books,  he  had  bequeathed  to  Emily  and  Wentworth.  The 
bulk  of  his  library  was  given  to  Muriel.  His  house  to  Cap 
tain  Fisher,  with  the  provision  that  the  two  rooms  in  which  he 
had  lived  should  be  kept  for  the  refuge  of  any  fugitive,  exile, 
houseless  or  outcast  person  of  any  description  who  might  stand 
in  need  of  succor.  His  little  income  he  had  also  given  in 
charge  to  the  Captain  to  be  expended  for  the  relief  of  any 
human  distresses  that  might  fall  within  his  knowledge,  or  to  be 
used  at  his  discretion  for  any  charitable  end. 

The  old  man  bent  his  head,  silently  weeping,  and  the  rest  sat 


EPILOGUE.  551 

mute  and  still,  thinking  with  swelling  hearts  of  the  kind  spirit 
that  had  left  earth  forever. 

A  little  while,  and  they  were  gone  from  the  room — all  save 
Muriel  and  Wentworth.  The  latter  stood  bending  over  the 
coffin  and  looking  mournfully  on  the  beautiful  dead  face  of 
his  friend,  and  Muriel  sat  at  the  organ  dreaming  in  music, 
which  brooded  in  sweet  and  glorious  surges  on  the  sunlit 
air. 

As  the  melody  died  away,  Wentworth  stole  slowly  to  her 
side. 

"I  forgot  to  ask  you,"  he  murmured,  "about  the  burial 
service.  Have  you  sent  for  a  clergyman  ?" 

"No,  Richard,"  she  replied.  "He  needs  none.  Our 
thoughts  and  memories  are  the  fittest  burial  rites  for  him.  He 
was  a  type  and  harbinger  of  the  day  when  religion  shall  be  the 
tender  love  and  reverence  of  every  soul  for  all.  In  the  vision 
of  that  day  let  us  lay  his  dead  form  in  the  grave,  hallowed  by 
our  remembrance." 

He  bent  his  head  in  silence  and  moved  away. 

An  hour  passed  by,  and  a  low  tap  came  to  the  door.  It 
was  Patrick  come  up  to  say  that  Mr.  Witherlee  was  below, 
and  begged  to  see  her.  Muriel  paused  a  moment,  with  a 
strange  feeling  of  surprise  at  this  unexpected  visit,  and  then 
went  down  into  the  parlor. 

Witherlee  was  there,  standing  hat  hi  hand,  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor.  He  did  not  bow  as  she  came  in,  but  looked  at  her 
with  a  rigid  and  wan  face,  and  sad  opaque  eyes.  For  a  mo 
ment,  Muriel,  usually  so  collected  and  calm,  lost  herself  in 
wonder  at  his  aspect,  and  blankly  gazed  at  him.  He  was 
singularly  changed.  All  the  affected  elegance  of  manner  was 
gone  ;  the  contumeliousness,  the  superciliousness,  the  mor 
bidity  of  the  face  were  gone  too  ;  the  handsome  brown  hair 
was  brushed  flat ;  the  handsome  eyebrows  seemed  as  if  their 
expressive  lift  was  lost  forever.  He  was  attired  in  deep  black, 
with  not  a  line  of  white  visible,  and  his  colorless  and  rigid 
countenance  wore  a  strange  expression  of  wan,  ascetic  abstrac 
tion. 

"  Why,  Fernando,"  said  Muriel,  in  a.  slow,  wondering  voice> 


552  EPILOGUE. 

recovering  from  her  momentary  pause,  and  approaching  him 
with  an  outstretched  hand,  "  I  am  surprised  to  see  you." 

He  took  her  hand  and  bowed  slightly,  with  an  abstracted 
air. 

"  I  ask  your  pardon  for  calling,"  he  replied,  looking  vacantly 
at  her,  and  speaking  as  if  in  dreaming  soliloquy.  "  I  heard 
of  his  death." 

He  paused,  looking  at  her  with  his  rigid  lips  slightly  parted, 
and  his  eyes  like  sad  stone. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  slowly,  wondering  more  and  more  at  his 
strange  manner.  "  It  is  true.  He  died  yesterday  morning  at 
sunrise." 

There  was  another  long  pause,  in  which  she  looked  blankly 
at  his  abstracted  gazing  face. 

"  I  am  going  to  join  the  Catholic  church,"  he  said  presently, 
looking  vacantly  at  the  wall,  though  his  eyes  had  not  seemed 
to  turn  from  her  countenance. 

"  Indeed  1"  she  replied. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  in  two  or  three  days  I  am  going  to  Bal 
timore.  I  intend  to  prepare  myself  for  holy  orders." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  are  going  to  become  a  priest  ?"  she 
wonderingly  asked. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "hi  the  Catholic  church. 

She  blankly  looked  at  him,  marvelling  at  what  he  had  told 
her. 

"  Would  you  be  kind  enough  to  let  me  see  him  ?"  said  he, 
vacantly.  "  Only  for  a  moment.  I  would  be  very  grateful." 

So  great  was  her  wonderment  at  the  strange  alteration  in 
him,  and  so  potent  the  deadening  influence  that  radiated  from 
him,  that  for  a  few  moments  she  remained  still  and  silent, 
fixedly  looking  at  his  face. 

"  Certainly,  Fernando,"  she  suddenly  replied,  starting  from 
her  amazement.  "  Certainly,  you  shall  see  him.  Come  with 
me." 

She  went  quickly  from  the  room  and  upstairs,  almost  doubting 
that  he  was  following  her,  so  noiseless  was  his  movement.  But 
as  she  entered  the  library  and  turned,  he  was  there,  and  mov 
ing  slowly  to  the  casket  on  the  table,  with  his  lips  parted,  and 


EPILOGUE.  553 

his  eyes  fixed  upon  it.  He  laid  his  hat  down  as  he  reached  it, 
and  gazed  intently  on  the  face  of  the  dead.  For  a  moment, 
Muriel's  eyes  sank  from  him  to  the  floor,  and  when  she  looked 
up  again,  she  saw  that  his  hands  were  folded,  his  eyes  closed, 
and  his  lips  moving  in  prayer.  She  turned  away,  with  a 
touched  heart. 

A  few  minutes  went  slowly  by,  and  a  dim  sense  of  motion, 
as  if  the  air  stirred,  came  to  her.  He  was  standing  near  her, 
hat  in  hand.  His  face  was  mute,  and  sad,  and  very  pale. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  he,  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  am  very  grate 
ful.  It  has  done  me  great  good  to  see  him  once  more.  I  feel 
better  for  it." 

Her  heart  rose  to  him,  and  with  a  sudden  movement  she 
reached  out  her  hand.  He  took  it  instantly,  and  his  lip  trem 
bled. 

11  You  were  very  good  to  me,"  he  faltered — "  you  and 
Richard  and  Emily.  I  do  not  feel  fit  to  come  here,  and  I 
would  not  have  come  again  if  I  had  not  heard  he  was  dead. 
I  did  not  feel  fit  to  see  him  while  he  lived,  but  I  wanted  to 
see  him  when  I  heard  he  was  no  more.  He  was  the  best 
friend  I  had  in  the  world.  He  did  me  good.  I  think  I  really 
never  loved  any  one  but  him." 

"  Fernando,"  said  Muriel,  tenderly,  "  can  you  not  let  the 
past  be  forgotten  ?  Do  not  go  away  from  us.  Stay  here,  for 
we  are  your  friends,  and  you  need  to  be  sustained  and  com 
forted.  Let  us  forget  all  that  has  happened,  and  meet  happily 
together  now." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  replied,  sadly.  "  You  are  very  kind,  and 
I  am  grateful  to  you.  But  I  do  not  feel  fit  to  live  near  you. 
I  do  not  deserve  your  friendship." 

Her  lips  parted  to  answer  him,  but  he  retreated  shaking  his 
head  mournfully,  and  stepping  noiselessly  from  the  room,  went 
down-stairs  like  a  phantom,  and  was  gone.  Muriel's  head 
drooped,  and  with  her  hands  clasped  together,  she  stood  musing 
for  a  long  time. 

The  hours  wore  on,  and  as  the  time  drew  near  to  three 
o'clock,  which  was  the  hour  at  which  they  were  to  bear  the 
dead  to  Mount  Auburn,  Muriel  went  to  her  chamber  to  attire 


554:  EPILOGUE. 

herself  for  the  sacred  journey.  When  she  came  down  into  the 
library,  all  who  were  to  go  were  there.  Her  mother,  Captain 
Fisher  and  his  family,  Emily  and  Wentworth,  Bagasse,  and 
with  him  a  new  comer — his  wife,  a  little  middle-aged,  brown 
Frenchwoman,  whose  eyes  were  swollen  and  red  with  hours 
of  weeping  for  the  dead  gentleman  who  had  nursed  her  hus 
band  in  his  sickness,  and  helped  him  and  her  to  meet  life  as 
they  had  never  been  helped  before.  Muriel  paused  a  few 
moments  to  greet  her  kindly  in  her  own  language,  and  then 
went  to  the  body  of  Harrington. 

As  she  reached  the  coffined  form,  illumined  by  the  bright 
light  which  filled  the  room,  she  saw  something  on  the  dark- 
garbed  breast,  which  brought  to  her  golden  eyes  the  first 
tears  they  had  known  since  her  hero  died.  It  was  the  Cross 
of  the  Legion  of  Honor  1  She  knew  at  once  who  had  placed 
it  there,  and  a  mighty  wave  of  emotion  swept  through  her  as 
she  gazed  on  the  old  soldier's  great-hearted  tribute  to  the 
valor  of  her  d^fid. 

For  a  few  moments  she  stood  still,  then  turning  with  a  sun- 
flash  in  her  dewy  eyes,  and  her  features  flushed  with  generous 
color,  she  saw  the  old  Frenchman  standing  near  her,  looking 
with  a  reverent  and  sombre  visage,  and  an  eye  of  dark  bril 
liance,  on  the  cross  of  the  Legion. 

"  It  is  mush  bettair  zere  zan  here,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand 
upon  his  heart,  as  his  eye  met  hers.  "  Mon  Empereur,  he  gif 
me  zat  wis  his  own  hand,  madame.  I  was  young  conscrip'  at 
Ligny,  and  I  take  ze  standard  from  ze  Prussian.  Zen  he  put 
on  my  breast  zat  cross.  I  lof  it  wis  vair  mush  lof,  and  I  will 
keep  it  for  vair  many  year  till  I  die.  Zen  he  die — zat  is  my 
ozzer  self,  and  I  put  it  on  him.  It  is  his  right.  Ze  brave 
zhentilman,  wis  his  gallantree,  his  goodness,  his  mush  lof,  he 
lie  in  ze  grave  wis  ze  cross  of  ze  Legion  on  his  breast.  Zat  is 
well.  It  is  his  right,  madame." 

She  pressed  his  hand  in  both  of  hers,  looking  fervently  into 
his  uncouth  and  martial  visage. 

"  Thanks,"  she  replied,  speaking  in  French.  "  You  fill  me 
with  gratitude.  I  accept  for  him  the  great  and  noble  tribute 
of  your  love.  It  is,  as  you  say,  his  right,  for  he  belonged  to 


EPILOGUE.  555 

the  Legion  of  Honor.     He  was  a  soldier  of  the  Guard — the 
old  Guard  which  dies,  but  never  surrenders  1" 

The  dark  eye  blazed  as  he  took  in  the  proud  significance  of 
her  words,  and  silent  with  emotion,  he  bowed,  and  retired. 

Two  hours  later,  and,  the  burial  over,  they  stood  in  the  green 
and  tender  sunlit  shadows  of  Mount  Auburn.  A  still  peace 
filled  the  sweet  sequestered  shades.  The  birds  sang  in  the 
murmuring  leaves  ;  the  soft  warm  odors  of  the  flowers  and 
greenery  breathed  around  them  ;  the  blue  June  sky  was  cloud 
less  and  calm  ;  and  the  descending  suftlight  shone  sweetly  on 
the  quiet  graves. 

For  a  little  while  after  the  others  were  gone,  Muriel  and 
Wentworth  lingered  looking  at  the  gentle  light  which  floated 
with  the  shadows  of  the  oak-leaves  overhead,  on  the  new-made 
mound. 

"It  is  all  over,"  said  Wentworth  mournfully.  "  Alas  !  I 
never  thought  I  would  stand  by  his  grave  !  He  realized  the 
noblest  dreams  of  chivalry — he  was  the  last  grand  chevalier — 
and  he  is  gone.  What  is  left  us  now  I" 

"  Memories,"  she  calmly  answered,  "  memories  of  a  life  of 
love.  Love  beat  through  all  his  life,  love  nerved  him  in  the 
strife  in  which  he  fell.  He  smote  like  Socrates  at  Delium — 
like  the  divine  old  Greek  who  clove  his  country's  foe,  and 
blessed  him  as  he  died.  So  smote  he  with  stern  love,  and  in 
all  the  wealth  of  memories  he  leaves  me,  that  memory  too,  is 
mine.  Sweet  memories,  I  treasure  you  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I 
Sweet  blossoms  of  True  Love,  I  fold  you  all.  Stern  blossom 
of  True  Love,  I  fold  you  too." 

He  gazed  with  mournful  tenderness  at  her  noble  features, 
which  were  lit  with  a  brilliant  and  fervent  smile. 

"  True  Love,  indeed  !"  he  answered.  "  Who  but  he  could 
leave  his  beautiful  Muriel,  his  adored  wife,  and  go  away  to 
die  for  one  of  the  lowliest  of  God's  creatures !  Ah,  were  there 
a  thousand  such  as  he,  this  land  would  be  purged  of  every 
wrong  I  But  he  was  alone  in  nobleness." 

"  No,  not  alone,"  she  said  with  sudden  spirit.  "  Not  alone. 
This  is  America — America,  forming  and  emerging,  with  mar 
tyrs  and  heroes  such  as  no  land  has  seen.  The  Greek  could 


556  EPILOGUE. 

die  for  freemen  ;  but  when  died  he  for  the  helot  ?  Oh,  I 
see  the  heroes  of  all  lands  and  times  I  They  live  and  die  for 
country,  for  ideas,  for  religions,  but  in  America  they  live  and 
die  for  man.  Land  of  Lovejoy's  grave,  land  of  Torrey's 
grave,  land  of  the  graves  obscure  and  countless,  graves  of 
the  lovers  for  whose  love  the  lowest  was  not  too  low,  I  read 
your  golden  augury  1  You  prophecy  the  future  ;  you  herald 
the  America  uprising — the  beautiful  divine  land  of  lovers  and 
of  friends  I  Shall  it  not  come  ?  Oh,  graves  of  all  who  die 
that  it  may  be,  answer,  answer,  answer  1" 

Her  thrilling  voice  ceased,  and  as  they  silently  moved 
away,  a  long  and  sea-like  swell  of  wind  arose,  and  all  the 
leaves  tossed  and  swept  in  an  aspiration  of  innumerable  rush 
ing  voices,  holier  than  ever  murmured  in  the  dim  groves  of 
Dodoua. 

Answer,  answer,  answer  I  Oh,  grave  at  Auburn,  green 
with  summer  beauty,  folding  beneath  the  oak-tree  shadows 
the  ashes  of  the  dead  chevalier,  answer,  answer,  fading  as  I 
gaze  !  Answer,  lone  grave  in  the  Adirondacks,  fadeless  and 
immortal  above  the  dust  of  the  True  Lover  who  tried  to 
save  his  country  from  her  slaves,  and  died  that  the  land  of 
lovers  and  of  friends  might  be  1  Answer,  graves  of  the 
.strong  score  of  heroes  who  flung  themselves  with  the  true- 
loving  sword  upon  the  Jacquerie  of  slavery,  and  perished 
for  the  hope  that  makes  America  divine  !  Answer,  graves  of 
all  that  made  the  country  holy  with  the  passion  of  their  living 
and  their  dying  for  mankind — answer,  and  tell  us  that  America 
emerges,  the  land  of  lovers  and  of  friends  ! 

It  comes  I  It  comes  I  Clear  and  sweet  are  your  voices, 
oh,  graves  !  Raging  clamors  drown  the  voices  of  the  living, 
but  clear  and  sweet  are  the  voices  of  the  dead,  and  it  comes 
— the  bright  land  comes — the  land  of  lovers  and  of  friends,  it 
comes ! 


THE     END. 


NOTE. 


I  AM  indebted  for  the  sketch  of  the  flight  of  a  fugitive  through  the 
Great  Pacoudrie  (or  Cacodrie)  Swamp,  in  the  introductory  portion  of 
this  volume,  to  a  couple  of  pages  in  the  graphic  and  affecting  narrative 
entitled  "Twelve  Years  a  Slave,"  by  Mr.  Solomon  Northup,  a  free 
citizen  of  New  York,  who  was  kidnapped  in  that  State,  and  sold  into 
bondage  in  Louisiana,  from  which  he  was  fortunately  rescued  and 
restored  to  his  wife  and  children,  after  a  dozen  years  of  enforced 
servitude. 

Another  acknowledgment  remains  to  be  made.  The  reader  of  the 
twelfth  chapter  of  this  book  may  already  have  observed  that  Harring 
ton,  if  he  had  lived,  would  have  been  a  believer  in  the  theory  regarding 
the  origin  and  purpose  of  the  Shakspeare  Drama,  as  developed  in  the 
admirable  work  by  Miss  Delia  Bacon,  entitled  "  The  Philosophy  of 
Shakspeare's  Plays  Unfolded,"  in  which  belief  I  should  certainly  agree 
with  Harrington.  I  wish  it  were  in  my  power  to  do  even  the  smallest 
justice  to  that  mighty  and  eloquent  volume,  whose  masterly  comprehen 
sion  and  insight,  though  they  could  not  save  it  from  being  trampled 
upon  by  the  brutal  bison  of  the  British  literary  press,  yet  lift  it  to  the 
dignity,  whatever  may  be  its  faults,  of  being  the  best  work  ever  com 
posed  upon  the  Baconian  or  Shakspearean  writings.  It  has  been  scouted 
by  the  critics  as  the  product  of  a  distempered  ideality.  Perhaps  it  is. 
But  there  is  a  prudent  wisdom,  says  Goethe,  and  there  is  a  wisdom 
which  does  not  remind  us  of  prudence  ;  and,  in  like  manner,  I  may  say 
that  there  is  a  sane  sense,  and  there  is  a  sense  that  does  not  remind  us 
of  sanity.  At  all  events,  I  am  assured  that  the  candid  and  ingenuous 
reader  Miss  Bacon  wished  for,  will  find  it  more  to  his  profit  to 
be  insane  with  her  on  the  subject  of  Shakspeare,  than  sane  with 
Dr.  Johnson. 

I  am  aware  that  in  even  making  this  acknowledgment,  I  do  some 
thing  to  excite  the  rancor  of  the  stupid  and  senseless  prejudice  which 
finds  no  difficulty  in  assigning  the  noblest  works  of  the  human  genius 
to  the  fat  peasant  of  Stratford — a  man  who,  as  Emerson  justly  says, 
lived  a  profane  and  vulgar  life,  and  whose  biography,  collected  after 

557 


558  NOTE. 

the  painful  labors  of  more  than  a  century,  does  not  present  a  single 
point  which  bears  any  relation  to,  or  correspondence  with,  the  holy 
and  heroic  pages  which  bear  his  name  ;  while,  at  the  same  time,  this 
prejudice  derides  as  a  mad  and  monstrous  impossibility,  the  theory 
which  ascribes  those  pages  to  Lord  Bacon  and  his  compeers — men  in 
whose  lives  and  careers  all  the  Shakspearean  conditions  are  fulfilled, 
and  all  the  Shakspearealities  included.  But  since  I  have  decided,  for 
reasons,  to  advance  again,  though  even  thus  slightly,  the  theory  I 
refer  to,  it  is  only  fair  to  render  due  credit  to  its  true  author.  I 
do  so,  earnestly  wishing  that  her  work  might  receive  the  respectful 
attention  it  undoubtedly  merits ;  and,  though  the  hand  which  wrote 
that  glowing  iliad  of  the  glory  and  the  genius  of  the  Elizabethan  men, 
will  write  no  more,  that  justice  might  be  done  to  the  great  dead  scholar 
in  her  grave. 

W.  D.  O'C. 


ANTI-SLAVERY   WORKS. 


I. 
THE  PUBLIC  LIFE  OF  CAPTAIN  JOHN  BROWN, 

BY    JAMES    BEDPATH. 
With  an  Autobiography  of  his  Childhood  and  Youth. 

With  a  Steel  Portrait  and  Illustrations,     pp.  408. 

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(of  which  no  reprint  will  be  permitted)  has  been  universally  pronounced  to  be  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  compositions  of  the  kind  in  the  English  language.  In  addition 
to  being  the  authentic  biography  of  John  Brown,  and  containing  a  complete  collection 
of  his  celebrated  prison  letters  —  which  can  nowhere  else  be  found  —  this  volume  has 
also  the  only  correct  and  connected  history  of  Kansas,  —  from  its  opening  for  settle 
ment  till  the  close  of  the  struggle  for  Freedom  there,  —  to  be  found  in  American 
literature,  whether  periodical  or  standard.  It  treats,  therefore,  of  topics  which  must 
be  largely  discussed  in  political  life  for  many  years.  A  handsome  percentage,  on 
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II_ 

SOUTHERN  NOTES  FOR  NATIONAL  CIRCULATION. 

EDITED    BY    JAMES    BEDPATH. 

This  is  a  volume  of  facts  of  recent  Southern  life,  as  narrated  by  the  Southern  and 
Metropolitan  press.  It  is  a  history  of  the  Southern  States  for  six  months  subsequent 
to  John  Brown's  Invasion  of  Virginia.  The  diversity  of  its  contents  may  be  judged 
from  the  titles  of  its  Chapters,  —  Key  Notes,  Free  Speech  South,  Free  Press  South,  Law 
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Our  Adopted  Fellow  Citizens  South,  Persecutions  of  Southern  Citizens,  The  Shivering 
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This  volume  is  a  collection  of  the  greatest  Speeches,  Sermons,  Lectures,  Letters, 
Poems,  and  other  Utterances  of  the  leading  minds  of  America  and  Europe,  called 
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It  contains  Speeclies  and  Sermons  — by  Wendell  Phillips  (two),  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 
(two),  Edward  Everett,  Henry  D.  Thoreau,  Dr.  Cheever  (two),  Hon.  Charles  O'Conor, 
Henry  Ward  Beecher,  Theodore  Tilton,  Col.  Phillips,  Rev.  Gilbert  Haven,  James 
Freeman  Clarke,  Fales  Henry  Newhall,  M.  D.,  Conway  (of  Cincinnati),  and  Edwin 
M.  Wheelock;  Letters— by  Theodore  Parker  (two),  Victor  Hugo  (two),  Mrs.  Mason 
of  Virginia,  and  Lydia  Maria  Child;  Poems  and  other  Contributions— by  William 
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most  tenderly-pathetic  and  remarkable  collections  of  letters  in  all  Literature." 
Also,  the  Services  at  Concord,  or  "  Liturgy  for  a  Martyr ; "  composed  by  Emerson, 
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mon  Prayer."  With  an  Appendix,  containing  the  widely-celebrated  Essays  of 
Henry  C.  Carey  on  the  value  of  the  Union  to  the  North. 

Appended  to  the  various  contributions  are  the  autographs  of  the  authors. 

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CHANTS    DEMOCRATIC    and    Na 
tive  American. 
LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 
Salut  au  Monde. 
Poem  of  Joys. 
A  Word  out  of  the  Sea. 
A  Leaf  of  Faces. 

Europe,  the  72d  and  73d  Years  T.  S. 
ENFANS  d'ADAM. 
Poem  of  the  Road. 
To  the  Saycrs  of  Words. 
A  Boston  Ballad,  the  78th  Year  T.  S. 
CALAMUS. 

Crossing  Brooklyn  Ferry. 
Longings  for  Home. 
MESSENGER  LEAVES. 
(To  You,  Whoever  You  Are. 
To  a  Foiled  Revolter  or  Revoltress. 
To  Him  that  was  Crucified. 
To  One  Shortly  to  Die. 
To  a  Common  Prostitute. 


To  Rich  Givers. 

To  a  Pupil. 

To   the  States,  to  Identify  the  16th, 

17th,  or  18th  Presidentiad. 
To  a  Cantatrice. 
Walt  Whitman's  Caution. 
To  a  President. 
To  other  Lands. 
To  Old  Age. 
To  You.) 
Mannahatta. 

France,  the  18th  Year  T.  S. 
Thoughts. 
Unnamed  Lands. 
Kosmos. 
A  Hand  Mirror. 
Beginners ....  Tests. 

Savantism Perfections. 

Says Debris. 

S  leep-Chasings. 

Burial. 

To  My  Soul. 

So  Long. 


Making  456  pages,  12mo.,  first  quality  paper  and  print,  with  portrait  of  the 
Poet,  from  a  painting  by  Charles  Hine,  of  New  York.  A  very  beautiful  and 
richly-bound  book.  No  handsomer  or  more  substantial  one,  for  the  price,  has 
ever  issued  from  the  press,  here  or  in  Europe. 


Also,  in  preparation, 
THE 


BANNER   AT   DAY-BREAK, 

A  HANDSOME  VOLUME  OF  ABOUT  200  PAGES. 


Banner  at  Day-Break. 

Washington's  First  Battle. 

Errand-Bearers. 

Pictures. 

Quadrel. 


The  Ox-Tamer. 
Poemet. 
Mannahatta. 
The  Days. 
Sonnets,  &c.  &c.  &c. 


SUPPLEMENT  CONTAINING   CRITICISMS,   &c. 


S  E 


E  . 


"  LEAVES  OF  GRASS  IMPRINTS,"  a  handsome  little  64  page  volume,  in  refer 
ence  to  the  above  Poems,  collecting  American  and  European  criticisms  on  the 
First  (1855)  and  the  Second  (1857)  Issues  of  Walt  Whitman's  "  Leaves."  Very 
instructive,  curious,  serious,  and  amusing.  Send  us  your  address,  any  where  in 
the  United  States,  and  we  will  forward  you  these  "  Imprints,"  free  and  prepaid. 

THAYER    &    ELDRIDQE, 

116  Washington  Street,  Boston. 


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.£'...BERI<ELEY  LIBRAR 


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